


(The Return of) ACOTER: ANNUAL CONFERENCE OF THE ELVEN REALMS

by erestor



Series: The Burning Woods [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erestor/pseuds/erestor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Elk and Ego

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes: "A.C.O.T.E.R." was the first fanfic I ever wrote, and it was the beginning of my long journey with Erestor and Glorfindel. Much fun was had, but as it happens, the two left one day and I thought they'd set sail for Valinor. It was a sad moment; a bit like two close friends moving to the other side of the world. I missed them very much, but I should have known that they were not gone forever. So what can I say - I returned from the premiere of "The Hobbit"; and they were sitting on my sofa. Tricky Elvses!
> 
> Thranduil's list of requirements was inspired by countless band riders that I worked through during my years in the music business. Those requirements are real!
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Some things never change. The sun rises in the east and goes down in the west. Every winter, Erestor will sneeze because of the cold, in spring he will sneeze because of the flowers' shameless love life, and come summer, he will suffer from terrible headaches due to A.C.O.T.E.R., the Annual Conference of the Elven Realms. It is always held in Imladris, officially due to the climate and the pretty flowers and the excellent food. In truth, however, Thranduil was too stingy to host the event, and Galadriel… well, after the incident with Celeborn, the five dancers and the four veils, any plans to meet in Lórien were shelved "until further notice".

That had been only 482 years ago, and so Erestor sat once again in his study, nursing a headache and dreading things to come. Glorfindel kept him company, for one because he enjoyed Erestor's company, for the other because the mere thought of A.C.O.T.E.R. had put him in a foul mood. For him, as head of Elrond's guard, it meant managing the guards of two Elven lords who both had egos the size of Gothmog's backside.

Above him, on a book shelf, sat Glorfinkle, Garfindel and Glorfunkle, the three crows Thranduil had brought to Imladris as a present four years ago. Glorfinkle had successfully shredded two of Glorfindel's favourite shirts, and the spot one of Glorfunkle's "souvenirs" had left on his blue robe was still visible after a scrubbing with the strongest soap. No, A.C.O.T.E.R. was not his favourite event of the year.  
Erestor shook his head, sucking in air through his teeth.

"Have you seen a naked troll?" Glorfindel asked.

"What kind of question is that?" Erestor muttered, trying to focus on the paper in front of him. It was the list of requests by King Thranduil the Exceptional and Impressive, Most Splendid and Feared Ruler of Mirkwood, King by the Valar's Grace, Ruler of 2000 Years, Shining Star of Greenwood The Green, Fairest of all Elven Lords, Light of the Dark Ages, Son of Oropher the Magnificent, Elbereth's gift to the Eldar, etc. etc. etc., brought by postal eagle and the size of a Hobbit's pantry inventory.

"You have a slightly greenish hue around your nose." Glorfindel continued to clean his fingernails with Erestor's letter opener. It was the one Lady Galadriel had given him for his begetting day. It glowed green if a letter contained unpleasant news, so it threw a sickly green light on Thranduil's requirements.

"What am I to do with this?" Erestor asked. "Where do I find _six female shower assistants_?"

"Send a postal eagle to Rent-an-Orc."

"Fin!"

"Fine, if you do not wish me to help…"

" _Two bags of Tobold Hornblower's finest weed._ What does he need Old Toby for? He is an Elf, he does not smoke!"

"Maybe he wishes to fumigate his room, just in case you put him in the one Celeborn occupied last year."

"And then this - he demands that his room may be _painted in different shades of green, not darker than the leaves of a yew tree or lighter than Mirkwood moss_."

"In other words, he wants to sleep in a room painted the colour of troll snot. That can be arranged."

"Please do not give Elrond any ideas," Erestor said. "It is difficult enough to keep him in a good mood."

Truth be told, Elrond was in a better mood than before any of the previous meetings. And that was all thanks to Glorfindel, who had suggested a race as the highlight of the entertainment programme. Through the valley, to the waterfall and then back to the Last Homely House, where the winner would be crowned with a wreath of roses, kissed by one of Imladris' fairest maidens, and then get majorly drunk during the festivities. Elrond would ride Asfaloth and therefore win, so at least this year, Thranduil would not leave for Mirkwood with a smug smile. By the Valar, this year would be Elrond's year!

"Oh, you will like this one: _20 large demijohns filled with fresh spring water_ for his Mirkwoodian Almightiness to wash his golden tresses with."

"Golden tresses? Bah," Glorfindel grumbled. "Bleached with chamomile extract I say, and as shaggy as a warg's tail!"

Erestor had to hide a smile.

"I would be most grateful, my dearest Glorfindel, if you could refrain from making such comments in the presence of Thranduil. Otherwise he might come to the conclusion that you do not like to lose the privilege of being the only fair-haired Elf in Imladris."

Glorfindel sniffed and arched his eyebrows; he could not have looked more arrogant if he had tried.

"The _completely unfounded_ conclusion, you mean?"

"Of course, of course. Here, this is a list of further requirements concerning his security; you can discuss everything with the head of his guard once they arrive."

Glorfindel took the bundle of parchments and leafed through them, harrumphing here and grumbling there, then finally shook his head.

"How very strange. Here it says the head of his guard is called Tauriel."

"So?"

"So Tauriel is a female name."

"So?"

"So it must be a mistake."

Erestor shrugged. "Maybe the head of his guard is female."

Glorfindel laughed.

"Erestor, I love your humour! Thranduil, make a female head of his guard? That elf is still stuck in the First Age! Why, remember how he wrote a letter of protest upon seeing Arwen in her riding gear? Six pages bemoaning the moral degeneration of Elven kind, signed by Outraged of Mirkwood! I should know, Elrond had it framed."

Erestor stopped writing and looked up.

"Ah, it seems the riddle will be solved very soon. Listen!"

Glorfindel did as he was told, and indeed, a faint, strange sound disturbed the peace of Imladris.

"The Horns of Mirkwood!"

Glorfindel winced.

"I wish they would leave the spiders be and spend more time practicing their musical skills. How awful! Sounds like a constipated mûmak!"

Erestor gave Glorfindel a stern look down his long nose.

"Let us welcome our guests, Fin. And do me a favour and at least try to be polite and professional, my beloved."

"I swear by all that I hold dear and holy that I will treat King Thranduil the Exceptional and Impressive, Most Splendid and Feared Ruler of Mirkwood, King by the Valar's Grace, Ruler of 2000 Years, Shining Star of Greenwood The Green, Fairest of all Elven Lords, Light of the Dark Ages, Son of Oropher the Magnificent, Elbereth's gift to the Eldar and bla bla bla with all the respect he is due."

"I was afraid you would say that," Erestor said. "So if I should break a leg or catch some horrible illness, it will be all your fault!"

* * *

"Stop!"

Tauriel held up her hand, and the Elven procession behind her came to an abrupt halt. Legolas, who had been half asleep on his horse, almost fell off, and and only saved himself from great embarrassment by clinging to the mare's mane.

"Again? What is it now? We must have halted fifty times since we left Mirkwood," he complained.

Tauriel gave him an angry sidewise glance, then carefully scanned the bushes on both sides of the path for possible enemies.

"Shhht! Wait! I heard a strange noise!"

"Probably one of Elrond's pigs farting," Legolas grumbled. "By the light of the Eldar, Tauriel, we are in Imladris here, not Dol Guldur!"

"My son, I disapprove of your language. Also, it is my wish that you support Tauriel in her duties. It was high time somebody took care of my security who actually cared about it. At least I can trust her to ensure that I will not encounter a spider in my bedchamber again."

Legolas considered for a moment asking whether the spider in question had been of the two- or the eight-legged variety, but he was too tired, and provoking his father was only fun in front of the right audience. There would still be plenty of time for that once they had arrived in the Last Homely House.

Tauriel focused on the bush next to her.

"There is something," she whispered, and reached for bow and arrow. "Do not move, my King - I shall protect you with my life!"

She held her breath, the deadly arrow aimed at a spot where leaves moved and rustling could be heard. Tauriel narrowed her eyes - and lowered her bow when a rabbit peeked out of the bush, looking bewildered.

"Fantastic!" Legolas applauded wildly. "Ada, you have been saved from the deadly Imladris Rabbit, a plague upon the land. Without Tauriel, it might have stabbed you with a carrot!"

Tauriel was tempted to stick her tongue out at her king's extremely annoying son, but that would have been undignified.

"Better twice mistaken than one mistake," she said. "Let us continue."

A few minutes later, they could see the guards of Imladris on their horses, their armour and spears shining in the sunlight, the flag of Elrond moving in the soft breeze.

"Now look at this, the Master of Imladris has come to greet us," Legolas said. "It is good to be here again. And there are Glorfindel and Erestor as well!"

Tauriel shaded her eyes against the sun.

"That is the Balrog-slayer?" she asked, her eyes widening. "He is a legend!"

Thranduil wrinkled his nose. "Now let us not get overly enthusiastic here," he said. "Certainly, Glorfindel is a seasoned warrior and had one or two successes in his time, but that time was long ago. He is a relict, of sorts. Now my father Oropher, on the other hand, he was a legend, and-"

"Orc! Orc!" Tauriel screamed, and the guards drew their bows.

Legolas blinked.

"Where?"

"There! Are you blind?"

She shot her arrow, but it was stopped before it could reach its target; Glorfindel had drawn his sword and cut the arrow into two pieces mid-air, and they fell to the ground. There was shocked silence among the elves of Imladris, and Elrond paled.

"Not bad for a relict," Legolas said, and dismounted his horse.

The orc in question glared daggers at Tauriel. She picked up the two pieces of the arrow, and shook them angrily.

"Stoopid elf! Why you come here and shoot at poor Mauburz? Who taught you manners, a big fat spider?"

Tauriel took a step back.

"What on earth is that?" she hissed in direction of Legolas.

"Oh, that is Mauburz. Mauburz the Straggler," he said cheerfully. "Have I not told you? She is the resident orc."

Tauriel was completely flabbergasted.

"Resident orc? What?"

"Indeed," Elrond said icily. "And I would be most grateful if you could refrain from attempting to shoot members of my household during your stay in Imladris."

Erestor hastened to get between Elrond and the new arrivals.

"I welcome you to Imladris, dear friends from Mirkwood," he said. "Our house is your house. You must be Tauriel, I assume?"

"Please forgive my mistake, I am truly sorry. I have never encountered an orc like that one." She hinted a bow, but her eyes were fixed on the large carrion crow circling above Erestor. "Indeed, I am the head of the King's guard."

Erestor glanced over his shoulder, hoping that Glorfindel would not say anything inappropriate. But he needn't have worried; Glorfindel wasn't paying any attention to Tauriel, but was staring at Thranduil instead.

"By the Valar," he finally said, "what on earth is that?"

"That? Ah, I thought you would never ask, my dear Glorfindel." Thranduil smiled and patted the head of the enormous animal he was riding on. "Amazing antlers, are they not? He is my pride and joy, and you will find that proud Lumir here is the fastest elk in Middle-earth. There can be no doubt who will win this year's race."

Glorfindel threw his arms in the air.

"An elk. He is riding an elk. Why is he riding an elk? You cannot ride an elk, it is a horse race we are holding, and an elk is not a horse, not even in Mirkwood!"

"Not saying horse in letter," Mauburz piped up. "Only said race, not said what you race with."

"A race is always with horses," Glorfindel howled. "Who ever heard of elk racing?"

All the Mirkwood elves raised their hands.

"Poor Glorfindel, have you never heard of the famous elk races in Mirkwood?" Thranduil said. "I am so sorry for inconveniencing you. But indeed, as Mistress Mauburz rightly states, it says race, not horse race. So my elk will race, my elk will win, and that is that."

If looks could kill, Elrond would have been guilty of murdering Glorfindel. Both looked at Erestor, who sighed and shrugged.

"It is as you say, Thranduil King. We will find a suitable stable for your - racing elk."

"Too kind of you, Master Erestor," Thranduil said, and dismounted. He did so with an elegance and fluidity no other elf possessed, and Erestor couldn't help but admire him for that. Thranduil greeted Elrond, then patted the shoulder of the crestfallen Glorfindel.

"Do not fret, my dear Glorfindel. It could have been worse - imagine Asfaloth losing to a wizard with racing rabbits!"


	2. Day 2: Boulders and Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

The times that Tauriel had left Thranduil's realm could be counted on one hand, and never had she ventured as far as Imladris. She was young and curious, and to her, used to the shadows of Mirkwood and the Great Cave, the Last Homely House was a place full of wonders. There was a carefree air about those living there; it seemed as if dangers and worries had no place in Elrond's home. Maybe it was the lack of imminent danger and threat - or was it the absence of Thranduil's sternness?

Indeed, the only stern elf in Imladris seemed to be Master Erestor, who had offered to show her around the Last Homely House. Tall, lean, with dark hair and dressed in black, he looked very different from the other elves in Imladris. The pale face with its long nose was pleasant, yet not as perfect as one would have expected of an elf, and she remembered the rumours about Erestor's ancestry; that he was one of the last wild Plains Elves. While Erestor chatted lightly about family portraits, sculptures and mentioned that the grape harvest had been particularly good this year, she remembered what Legolas had told her about Erestor: "He may give the impression of being the most boring elf in all of Middle-earth, but make no mistake, he would rip your head off without blinking if he felt you posed a threat to Imladris or if you should fall asleep during one of Glorfindel's Balrog stories."

"You must find Imladris a strange place," Erestor said, as if he'd read her thoughts.

"It is… different," Tauriel replied after a moment's consideration. She'd been lost in thought and had missed half of Erestor's explanations, and hoped her answer had been diplomatic enough.

"Different, I see. I think the term your predecessor in the guards used was _insane_ , so _different_ must be considered an improvement. When did Thranduil appoint you head of his personal guard?"

"Six months ago. I am very honoured that he puts so much trust in me," she said, and her eyes were sparkling with pride. Erestor nodded.

"And rightly so. It seems your duties are more extensive than those of the previous head of the guard. I understand there is some concern for Thranduil's safety?"

She hesitated; always on her guard, she considered whether she could trust Erestor with the trouble in Mirkwood. And there was the posing-a-threat-to-Imladris bit. Finally, she nodded.

"Indeed."

Erestor looked concerned.

"You must tell me all about it; if there is a danger, we need to know. But here is your king's chamber, please enter."

Erestor opened the door to a beautiful large room, with a balcony overlooking the green meadows of Imladris and the famous waterfalls. It would be the perfect place to watch the upcoming race. Tauriel thought of Glorfindel's reaction to Lumir, Thranduil's racing elk, and frowned.

Erestor misunderstood the expression.

"You need not worry, my dear captain; Celeborn has never set foot in this chamber. It is too far from my lord Elrond's wine cellar. No need to fumigate the place."

"Oh, that was never a concern, Master Erestor," Tauriel hastened to say, though, truth be told, Thranduil had brought a box of olibanum for just that purpose. She knelt down to look under the bed and opened a large chest to check for possible intruders. Then she headed for the wardrobe and attempted to open the large doors.

"You absolutely must check behind the curtains first, Tauriel. That is where your garden-variety assassin would hide in the first place, do you not agree?"

Tauriel winced and dropped her hands, then turned towards Erestor.

"You must think me mad," she said. "But I assure you that I have good reason to be cautious."

"Then do take a seat and tell me about the events in Mirkwood. You are among friends here, and if we can help, we will."

They sat down at a small table on the balcony, and Erestor poured Gondorian country wine from a carafe. Tauriel reached for the glass, inhaled the lovely aroma, but then put it down again. She was on duty, after all.

Erestor had no such qualms and took a sip.

"There were incidents," Tauriel began, drumming her fingers nervously on the table. "Or accidents, rather; at least that was what we first thought."

Erestor leaned forward.

"Tell me, and in full detail. Do not leave anything out, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you."

Tauriel collected her thoughts.

"It all began in the wine cellar, about six months ago. The king was looking for a barrel he had received from Lake Town, a very special brew of strong beer. The cellarer could not find it in his inventory, so Thranduil insisted on looking for it himself. He leaned forward to read a label, and suddenly all the barrels came crashing down. If Legolas had not reacted so quickly and pushed us aside, we would be dead now."

"He never fails to surprise, our golden prince… and you thought it was an accident?"

"Yes. Upon investigation, we found that the wedges keeping the barrels in place had become loose. The carpenter said it was material fatigue, the cellarer was demoted to warden of the royal acidic springs, and that was it."

"Only, it was not?"

"No." Tauriel sighed. "Two weeks later, after the feast to celebrate Legolas' begetting day, all of us fell violently ill."

Erestor arched his eyebrows.

"Poison?"

"Indeed. Legolas found out that somebody had switched the beetroot juice for a bottle of orc blood from the healing house. The only reason none of us died is because we all hate beetroot-juice soup and only ate a few spoonfuls, out of politeness."

"And who could blame you. So, barrels and orc blood. What next?"

"There had been sightings of orcs in the northern part of Mirkwood, near Salsify Hill."

"They make great soup," Erestor said.

"Orcs?"

"Salsify. With cream and herbs, gently steamed - excellent. But please, do go on."

"Yes, Salsify Hill. King Thranduil insisted on accompanying us, saying that you had to take care of orcs yourself if you wanted them to be taken care of the way you want, or something along those lines. We found some footprints, and when we knelt to have a closer look at them, several boulders came crashing down the hill. Two guards were seriously injured, including the captain. Luckily, the king was unharmed."

Erestor rubbed his chin.

"I assume it was Legolas who saved the day once more?"

"Yes. He broke his arm in the process."

"And that was when you were promoted to captain?"

"Yes, at first only while my old captain was recuperating, but then Thranduil said he was happy with my service and did not like having to memorise new faces all the time."

Erestor emptied his glass and cast a glance over Imladris, seemingly lost in thought. Tauriel shifted on her seat, not sure whether he had paid attention to her last words.

"A very odd story," Erestor finally said. "I must think about it, and discuss the matter with my lord Elrond. For now, however, be assured that you are absolutely safe here in Imladris. No orcs in the woods, no assassins in the wardrobe. But I see Lord Celeborn has arrived."

Tauriel stood up and peeked over the intricately wrought rail of the balcony. She shaded her eyes against the sun, then shook her head.

"Where is his entourage? Certainly he has not come here all alone?"

"We shall find out at once. Will you join me to greet the lord of the Golden Wood? I am quite certain you will find him - intriguing."

Tauriel gave Erestor a suspicious sidewise glance.

"That is not the word my king used to describe him."

"My dear Tauriel, under certain circumstances, even the mighty kraken can be intriguing."

He bowed, and she followed him, making sure all her knives were within reach and all buttons on her jerkin tightly closed.

* * *

As soon as Erestor and Tauriel had left the chamber, the large wardrobe opposite the bed opened, and two young elves emerged. They were brothers, yet they looked as different as two elves possibly could. Estorel, the firstborn son of Erestor and Glorfindel, was tall, dressed in brown suede, with long, black hair; not shiny like Erestor's though, but wild and unkempt, and he moved with the kind of powerful grace one might have expected from a wildcat just before it attacked. The gentle brown eyes, however, seemed not to fit his appearance of a fierce warrior.

His younger brother Lórindol on the other hand was smaller and more slender, with soft blue eyes and golden hair, adorned with a girdle of cornflowers. In his blue robes, he looked angelic, born to be a poet or musician. However, this impression was completely wrong, for Lórindol was Erestor's son through and through; sarcastic, with a keen mind, a sharp tongue and little patience for his fellow elves' shortcomings.

Lórindol smoothed his robes which had been creased while the two were hiding in the wardrobe.

"That was close. Imagine if they had found us! But as I always say, hide in plain sight and nobody will find you. So, what do you think?"

"She is very pretty," Estorel replied.

Lórindol rolled his eyes.

"No. I mean, yes. But I am talking about the Mirkwood mystery."

Estorel shrugged.

"I do not know what to make of it. Who would have an interest in murdering Thranduil? I mean, Celeborn and a few thousand dwarves aside…"

Lórindol helped himself to the wine and took a sip. He pulled a face.

"Ew. Much too sweet. How can sia drink this plonk? My dear brother, Thranduil has survived wars and spiders and dragons and probably a Balrog or two in his time - and now we are expected to believe that he needs the protection of an inexperienced captain of the guard who has never encountered worse than a couple of orcs on mangy wargs? Please!"

"But sia took Tauriel's concerns very seriously," Estorel retorted. "I cannot imagine he would have inquired about the incidents in such detail if he did not believe them to be true."

"Agreed, but still, I smell a fish here, and it is not Miss Mauburz' experimental cooking. We need to investigate, Estorel. I will talk to Tauriel, and you go and try to get more information from Legolas. I find it strange that it was always him foiling the assassination attempts."

"Why do I have to talk to Legolas?" Estorel protested. "You know I do not like to talk to people!"

Lórindol sighed.

"I will talk to Tauriel because I look sweet and innocent and harmless, and you will talk to Legolas because you do not. He likes that. And you like him and would not get to talk to him, otherwise. So two birds killed with one stone, perfect!"

"Not if you are one of the birds," Estorel said, but Lórindol had already dashed out of the door, eager to greet his favourite Elven lord.


	3. Day 3: Budgets and Bets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

In previous years, Celeborn's entry into Imladris had always been a magnificent sight to behold. His entourage usually consisted of over one hundred Galadhrim, servants, stable hands and, of course, his personal dancers. This year, however, the court of Elrond gathered to meet a very sourly looking Celeborn, accompanied only by a single elf; skinny, stern-looking, wearing eye glasses and clutching a roll of paper.

"He is wearing eye glasses, Erestor," Glorfindel whispered. "Why is he wearing eye glasses? He is an elf!"

"I have no idea and it does not matter," Erestor hissed. "I find it more remarkable that Celeborn appears to have come here all alone."

"Yes, but - eye glasses. On an elf. Eye glasses!"

Erestor couldn't give a suitable reply, as Celeborn, riding an exceptionally large and fierce looking horse, was now within earshot.

Elrond opened his arms.

"Welcome to Imladris, my dearest Celeborn!"

"Greetings," Celeborn muttered.

Elrond arched an eyebrow.

"Have you separated from your entourage? Will they join you later?"

Celeborn frowned even more.

"No entourage. Just me and - _him_ ," he snapped, pointing at his companion.

"And he would be…?"

"… Ophir," the elf replied, bowing. "I am Ophir, the lady Galadriel's personal accountant."

"Accountant, aha, I see…" Elrond said, though he didn't understand a thing. Ophir felt compelled to explain himself.

"The financial development of the last age was underwhelming, to say the least. Therefore I and the lady Galadriel have taken some measures to improve the situation. I am certain you have heard of the telain-under-occupation-tax?"

Elrond looked baffled. "No?"

 Ophir sighed. "Never mind. We have also prepared a budget plan, and-"

"A what? A budget plan?" Glorfindel laughed. "Certainly, you are jesting?"

Ophir wrinkled his nose.

"I am not in the business of jesting, Lord Glorfindel. Times have changed since the days of Gondolin, where even the flowers were golden. This is the age of austerity, and we cannot risk weakening our defenses to fund musicians and dancers and other hangers-on." He held up a roll of paper. "I am here to keep track of his lordship's expenses."

"Not only the flowers were golden in Gondolin, also the swords," Glorfindel said icily, "and you would be well advised to-"

"-to feel right at home in Imladris, Ophir," Erestor cut him off. "Please, follow me, and I will lead you to your chambers, where you may rest and refresh yourself."

Ophir nodded, glared at Glorfindel over the rim of his eye glasses, and pushed them up the bridge of his thin nose. Celeborn dismounted, but when a stable hand approached him to lead his horse away, he refused.

"Thank you, but this horse is a special breed and very nervous. I would rather look after him myself while we are here; he needs to be at the peak of his form for the race." Upon seeing Glorfindel's frown, Celeborn smiled for the first time. "Nothing against good old Asfaloth, of course, my dear Glorfindel, but Aratoamin here will win the race, no doubt." He patted the animal's nose, then ran his hand over the luxurious red saddle cloth covering Aratoamin's back.

"I hope he will like Lumir," Lórindol piped up. "They will share a stable, you know."

Celeborn arched an eyebrow.

"And who, pray tell, is Lumir?"

"King Thranduil's racing elk," Lórindol replied with a cheeky little smile. "And the king is convinced that Lumir will win."

"Ha! In his dreams!" Celeborn laughed. "I will bet twenty gold coins that Thranduil will finish last!"

"My lord, we do not have the budget for bets," Ophir said. Celeborn muttered something to himself, took Aratoamin's reins and headed for the stable, closely followed by Galadriel's accountant, studying the figures on his scroll, and Erestor, cursing his fate.

"What do you think of that, Mistress Straggler?" Lórindol asked Mauburz.

"Mauburz thinks Estorel should have come to greet nice lord Celeborn."

"He would rather be on his own, as you well know. What about Ophir?"

"Mauburz thinks Ophir is stupid elf."

"Agreed, and what about the rest?"

"Talan-under-occupation-tax must be most stupid thing Mauburz has ever heard of."

"Of course, but the other issue?"

"Mauburz also thinks Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel need marriage counseling."

"That, too," Lórindol replied, tapping his foot impatiently. "But I ask about the horse! What do you think of Aratoamin?"

Mauburz scratched her nose.

"If you ask Mauburz, that is very strange horse. Thinks Lord Celeborn tries to cheat, yes. Poor Glorfindel."

"Yes, poor ada. But do not worry, I will find out what is going on here."

Mauburz wagged her finger at the young elf.

"You! You always trouble! Always sticking cute nose in things not your business! If Lord Celeborn cheats, Master Erestor will have his head on plate for supper, with parsley in ears and apple in mouth, yes. No need for you to go and nose around, no! There is orc saying, curiosity killed the warg, so be careful!"

Lórindol laughed and ran his hand coquettishly through his long blond hair.

"It is very kind of you to worry, Mistress Straggler, but there is no need; I can look after myself very well, and will outsmart Lord Celeborn, just you wait and see."

With that, he hurried off towards the stables. Mauburz shook her head.

"Stoopid elf," she said to herself. "One should not believe that he's elfling of Master Erestor." She scratched her head. "Then again, is also elfling of Lord Glorfindel, so not that big surprise."

* * *

With the arrival of Celeborn, the stables of Imladris had suddenly become a place of great interest to various parties. First Lórindol tried to enter, but was shooed away by two stern looking guards. Then Thranduil and Legolas arrived to check on Lumir. However, they spent most of their time standing in front of Aratoamin's box and discussing his chances. Thranduil had no doubt of his victory, but Legolas wasn't so certain. Celeborn's steed was a very large, very powerful horse, and there was something odd about him.

"I think there is magic involved," he finally said, pointing at the nervous horse. "Just look into his eyes, ada, this is no ordinary horse!"

Thranduil narrowed his eyes and glared at his son.

"Magic? Nonsense! All I can see is a squint. Lumir could win against this horse even if he had to run on two legs, just you wait and see. The only magic here will be the sparkling of my trophy in the sunlight after my glorious victory."

Legolas sighed. Yes, Lumir was fast, and nobody knew how to ride a racing elk like his father, but there had to be a reason for Celeborn's confidence of victory. He was less worried about the outcome of the race, though, than an unexpected disruption of his schedule. He could not allow anybody to interfere with his mission!

"I am hungry," Thranduil declared. "Let us see what Imladris' kitchen has to offer. By the Forest Spirits, if they should dare to serve lettuce again, I shall declare war."

The two left, closing the stable door behind them. For a while, all was quiet, save for the neighing of Aratoamin, the sound of Lumir scratching his antlers on a beam, and the disapproving huffing of Asfaloth, who didn't appreciate having to share his quarters with elks and strange horses at all. Lórindol, who had overheard the conversation from his hideout in the hayloft, decided that it was now safe to climb down the ladder and have a closer look at the formidable Aratoamin.

But just as he began to crawl towards the ladder, a hand grasped his ankle and pulled him back. Lórindol gave a little yelp. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Tauriel, hay sticking to her clothes and in her disheveled hair.

"What are you doing here, elfling?" she asked sharply, not letting go of Lórindol, who tried to free his foot from her grasp.

"I could ask you the same," he said, sounding as nonchalant as possible. "After all, this is my home, and you are only a guest. Do you always snoop around in your host's hayloft? Also, I am not an elfling. For your information, I am eighty years old, so almost grown up."

Tauriel rolled her eyes, and let go of Lórindol.

"Then you are still an elfling by the standards of my people. In any case I demand to know what you are doing here. Why are you spying on my king?"

"I am not spying on your king," Lórindol protested. "I am spying on Celeborn's horse, it is far more interesting." That wasn't the truth, but not a lie either, and he hoped Tauriel wouldn't make any further inquiries.

"Aha, the horse. Is there anything I should know about the formidable Aratoamin?"

Lórindol gave her an arrogant look.

"Nothing that would be of any interest to you."

Tauriel shrugged.

"Of course. What can an elfling like you know, after all."

Lórindol's ears began to turn red, a certain sign of anger.

"I know everything about everybody," he said, "you would be surprised!" He pulled a small, leather-bound book from his jerkin. He leafed through the pages, then tapped his finger on one side.

"Here - _'Tauriel, captain of Thranduil's personal guard. 607 years old, very skilled archer, loyal, favourite meal is boar stew with thyme, favourite colour is red, has a crush on Legolas, nice legs'_."

Tauriel frowned. Then she pulled a small book, quite similar in appearance to Lórindol's, from her jerkin, opened it on page 30 and showed it to him.

"Here - _'Lórindol, youngest son of Glorfindel and Erestor. Precocious, nosy, arrogant and a know-it-all. Lazy and clumsy. Very protective of his brother, spied on Celeborn's dancers bathing last year. Avoid at all cost, do not trust him further than you can throw him.'_ See? I know many things as well! And for your information, I do not have a crush on Legolas. Whoever told you that was pulling your leg."

"The only one pulling my leg here is you. So, no crush, and I did not spy on any dancers. Well, not intentionally. It just happened. With that out of the way, what are your thoughts on Aratoamin?" Lórindol managed to blush and gave her a pleading look from under his long lashes, looking embarrassed. "I simply do not wish anybody to betray my ada, you see?"

Tauriel, who had no idea that Lórindol and Estorel had overheard her conversation with Erestor, decided that the young elf posed no threat to her king, but was really only trying to help his father. A very noble cause, and he really looked flustered.

"I have not thought about the matter much yet," she finally said, "but I do find it strange that Aratoamin is still covered with that splendid saddle cloth. Do you not agree?"

"Indeed, that is strange. We should have a closer look," Lórindol suggested, but just then, the stable door opened and in came three stable hands to muck out the stalls. Tauriel signed to Lórindol to leave, and he did so, moving across the boards and hay without even the slightest noise, and slipping out of the small window faster than a squirrel. Tauriel was amazed; she would not have thought Lórindol to possess such speed and elegance, and she made a mental note not to underestimate the young one. Who knew, maybe he could be of use to her one day.

* * *

Imladris was still asleep, all was quiet, and to Legolas, the scratching of quill on paper seemed exceptionally loud. What if somebody heard him? A ridiculous thing to worry about; after all, he was only writing a letter. Certainly nobody could possibly find anything wrong with a young husband and father writing to his family? But much was at stake, the walls had ears, and Erestor an extra set of eyes in the back of his head, or so it seemed. Legolas had noticed how Elrond's advisor watched him. He carefully sanded the paper, then re-read it once more.

_"My dearest betrothed_

_I hope this letter finds you and our little leaf in best of health. I agree with you that sharing a great cave with an excellent echo with a teething elfling is a challenge, but I am confident you will manage and hope his teeth will all be through by the time I return to Mirkwood._

_Haldir, Rabbit, Orophin and the twin sons of Elrond attend the festivities in Gondor, along with Rúmil and the lady Galadriel. So I find this year's ACOTER a strangely deserted affair. However, the sons of Erestor and Glorfindel provide all the annoyance Elrohir and Elladan did in their youth. Not that I have seen Estorel yet; he remains as elusive as always, but I am quite certain he is watching me._

_Indeed, I feel a thousand eyes on me, my beloved. I need to be very careful in all the things I say and do; Tauriel is no fool, and sooner or later, she will find us out. As for father, he feels as confident as always and is convinced of his invincibility, despite the three failed assassination attempts. But as the mortals say: if you do not succeed at first, you should try, try, try and try again!"_

Legolas nodded, then sealed the letter. For a moment, he sat in silence and contemplated the day to come, but then he suddenly froze. He was not alone, he could feel it. He got up, looked under the bed, opened the wardrobe and shook the curtains, yet found nothing. Was his mind playing tricks on him? But no, if there was one thing he could always trust in, it was his instinct. He thought he could see something moving from the corner of his eye, and rushed out onto the balcony, which offered a breath-taking few of early morning, dew-covered Imladris. Legolas looked over the railing, but he could neither hear nor see anybody. His mysterious watcher was gone, and must have fled by climbing down the vine clinging to the wall; a dangerous maneuver for which only three elves in Imladris that he knew of possessed the necessary skills. Rabbit was in Gondor, Erestor asleep, so that left only one.

"Estorel? Is it you?" he asked, but there was no answer.


	4. Day 4: Twists and Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent". For the backstory of the twins, please see "Finding Námo".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"Do you think Asfaloth will win the race?"

Elvoron shrugged, and stoked the dying embers of the campfire with a stick. Then he remembered that a shrug wouldn't be of much use to his brother, and was opening his mouth to give a more eloquent answer when Ellón grinned and cut him off.

"You just shrugged. I could hear it."

"You hear the grass grow, it seems. Well, I _do_ hope Asfaloth wins; otherwise Glorfindel will be unbearable for an age or two. Then again, he will be just as unbearable if he wins."

"True, that." Ellón turned towards his brother. "You wish we could be there."

Elvoron sighed.

"Only if we were invisible. I hate the stares, and they always stare. They cannot help it, and it annoys me. And you as well, do not deny it."

"I know, their eyes burn holes in my back," Ellón replied. "And once they are done staring, they start whispering."

The Elves of Imladris had long become accustomed to Elrohir's twin sons, and stopped both staring and whispering some decades ago, but travelling merchants and visitors couldn't help but notice that the twins looked - different. Tall, willowy and pale, they were fair - they had a great likeness to Elrohir - but their beauty was of a dangerous and uncanny kind; deadly nightshades rather than sweet daisies. Their long black hair was braided in a pattern nobody had seen before or yet managed to copy, their fingers were long, ending in almost claw-like nails, and when they smiled, they showed white, sharp teeth.

But what truly set them apart from their fellow Elves was their eyes. Oh, those horrible, horrible eyes! Elvoron's were pitch black; at first glance, one could almost think he had no eyes at all. Ellón's were veiled by a thin grey layer, for he was blind. Glorfindel had once seen the dead Elves in the Mere of Dead Faces, and they'd stared at him in just the same way.

Very disconcerting, yet, despite their strange appearance, the twins were much loved by all of Imladris, and Elrond had little patience for the nosy and gossipy. He would have been more than happy if Elvoron and Ellón had stayed in Imladris for the duration of A.C.O.T.E.R. or attended the festivities in Gondor, but he understood that they did not wish to expose themselves to stares and questions about their parentage. Sadly, this deprived Lórindol of the pleasure of informing all and sundry that the twins had actually hatched from a cursed dragon egg Elrohir had found while on holiday in Lothlórien.

"I like being here in the woods," Elvoron said, trying his best to sound cheerful. "A starlit sky, peace, nothing to disturb us but the cry of an owl - who could ask for more?"

"Yes. Delightful. Hurrah," Ellón muttered. "I can barely take the excitement."

"Trees and owls… boring, boring, boring. Boooring. You are too young for boredom. Or too old. It depends."

A mocking voice came from behind them. The fact that neither of the twins moved to reach for their swords indicated that they knew their visitor.

"Well met, sia," Elvoron greeted his parent politely.

"All hail the elusive Vala," Ellón said without much enthusiasm, "it has been a while. What has kept you this time? Orcs? War? Outbreak of a deadly illness?"

Námo, the Judge of the Dead and Master of Doom, currently on an extended break from his duties, arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. It was obvious it was him the twins had to thank for their unusual appearance, though being a Vala, Námo was fair beyond measure. Well, at least this was Elrohir's opinion; the twins would have given a lot to take more after their father than after their sia, but then again, one could not pick and choose parents. Today, Námo wore no robes, but the garb of a hunter, and his braids were held together with tiny clasps in the shape of skulls.

"My dear child, you know very well that I currently do not occupy myself with such mundane tasks; my realm has been in the mostly capable hands of Gil-galad and Amaris for at least five decades. I have no intention of returning to the Halls of Waiting any time soon, certainly not as long as you two still need my guidance."

"If we need guidance, we will consult one of Erestor's maps," Ellón snapped. "I doubt you are here because you missed our company. You only ever show up when you want us to do something which usually ends in a lot of trouble. For us!"

Námo crouched down next to his son, and gave Ellón a thoughtful look.

"I do miss your company, little one. Yours, your brother's and very much your father's. But there are some things not even I can change. As much as I wish I could stay, I cannot. Not yet. You are right, though, I want you to do something. Something of great importance."

"Orcs? War? Outbreak of a deadly illness?" Elvoron asked, his curiosity piqued.

Námo shook his head.

"Murder. A ruthless assassin has arrived in Imladris, and I want you to prevent this unpleasant individual from succeeding. If you fail, the consequences for all of Middle-earth will be dire."

The twins jumped up.

"Imladris is in danger? We will return immediately," Elvoron said, and extinguished the fire with water from his water skin, covering the smoking remains with earth. Ellón whistled for their horses.

"Do you know who the assassin is?"

Námo nodded.

"Of course I do. I know everything."

"So who is it then?" Ellón asked impatiently.

"Ah, you will find out for yourself," Námo replied with a smile. "It would take all the fun out of this mission if I told you, do you not agree?"

"Ach, sia…" Elvoron sighed, but Námo had already disappeared. The twins saddled their horses, and within minutes, they were heading for Imladris.

* * *

Estorel didn't have to wait long for Legolas to turn up at the training ground. He knew that the guests from Mirkwood were used to rising with the first rays of the sun, and Legolas always was the first to start the sword training. Estorel slipped down from the tree he'd been hiding in, took a deep breath and walked towards the guest from Mirkwood.

Legolas heard the steps behind him and turned around.

"Good morning," he said, not really surprised to see Estorel. "I am very pleased to see you are alive. I began to have some doubts. Up so early?"

"I was - busy," Estorel muttered. "And I am always up early. How are you?"

"I am fine. As I should be, seeing how I am now married and father of a wonderful elfling." Legolas gave Estorel his most charming smile. "That reminds me: you did not attend my wedding. I must admit that I was a tad insulted."

Estorel frowned. "I was sick. Did my parents not tell you?"

"Indeed, they did. Your brother, however…"

"… should never be listened to, no matter what!"

Estorel made a mental note to throttle Lórindol as soon as he could lay hands on him. What had the little lizard told Legolas? Hopefully not the truth! After all, hiding in the woods to avoid having to see Legolas get married and then spending two weeks sulking and steaming in jealousy had not been the most dignified way to react to the invitation.

"Well, I am here _now_ ," Estorel said defiantly, silently cursing himself. He had promised Lórindol he'd extract all possible information about the attacks on Thranduil from Legolas, and now he could barely start a simple conversation. If only he'd had his brother's charms!

Luckily for him, Legolas was in the mood for a little chat. For one because he was convinced that it had been Estorel spying on him last night and hoped to find out the reason, and for the other because he hadn't seen Erestor's and Glorfindel's son for a long time. In his memory, Estorel was still an Elfling, hiding behind Erestor and smiling shyly at him. He had grown into a fair and strong young Elf, and Legolas recognised the warrior Estorel would be one day.

"As much as it would flatter me to think that you came here so early in the day because you enjoy my company, I assume you are here to ask about my father?"

Estorel took a step back, looking flustered.

"No! I mean, yes. I mean yes and no. What I am trying to say is-"

"No worries," Legolas laughed. "You enjoy my company and want information as well, that is acceptable. So, what would you and your brother like to know?"

Estorel's usually pale face was brick red. What a completely ridiculous and embarrassing situation! Well, he might as well make the most of it.

"We are worried that there might be danger for our home," he said. "And we wondered if you had a suspicion who your father's enemy is."

Legolas sighed, his smile disappearing and giving way to a deep frown.

"Suspicions are dangerous things, Estorel. Imagine you accuse an innocent; the damage would be immeasurable. Once a rumour is out, there is no way to take it back again."

Estorel chewed his lip.

"So you have no suspicions then?"

"Ah, I did not say that! But they are not of the kind I would share with even my closest confidants. Not until I have proof. I am certain that you will understand this."

Estorel shook his head.

"No. You can trust us. And our parents. And Lord Elrond. They could help."

Legolas put his hand on Estorel's shoulder.

"I know. And I would trust them with my life. But we are not talking about _my_ life here, Estorel."

"So there is nothing we can do?"

Legolas took his sword from its sheath and held it up, the first rays of the morning sun reflecting from it and blinding Estorel, who blinked.

"There is always the question who profits from a crime. At the moment, I probably look like the prime suspect, for if my father died, I would become King of Mirkwood. But I will let you into a secret, my friend." He lowered the sword and looked at Estorel with great seriousness. "I do not _want_ to become the King of Mirkwood. I would actually rather work in the mines of the Dwarves than wear that crown of berries."

Estorel looked shocked. This was not a confession he'd expected from Legolas.

"So, I had better start my training now," Legolas said, switching to his usual cheerful self within a second. "Do not worry too much, for my father's safety is in very capable hands. Indeed, I could not think of anybody more suited for the duty of protecting my father than Tauriel. And the greater the danger, the more important her position becomes. Do you not agree?"

"I suppose so," Estorel said. His head was spinning; had Legolas just given him a hint?

"I will see you at the race tomorrow," he said, then turned on his heels and hurried off to meet up with Lórindol. He couldn't wait to hear what his brother had to say about this.

As soon as Estorel had disappeared from his view, Legolas smiled. "Now, that was almost too easy", he said to himself. "One down, one to go."


	5. Day 5, Forenoon:  Suspects and Successors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Glorfindel was not a morning person. While Erestor would rise with the first chirping of the birds, he would blink, curse the early birds of Imladris and then hide his face in the pillow to sleep for at least another hour. A good thing Orcs were not morning creatures, either, otherwise Glorfindel's predisposition might have conflicted with his duties.

He was less than happy when his youngest son burst into his chamber at an outrageously early hour. Indeed, Erestor had left just five minutes ago, and now Lórindol was jumping on the bed, grabbing Glorfindel by the shoulder and shaking him.

"Wake up, ada!" he said cheerfully. "I need to talk to you, it is important!"

Glorfindel muttered something unintelligible and slipped deeper under his blanket.

Lórindol shook his head, then poked his father with both index fingers.

"Ada, wake u-u-up, I have questions!"

"Go 'way, you Orc," Glorfindel grumbled. "Go and pester your brother."

Lórindol sighed, and began to bounce up and down.

"But it is about murder, ada," he said, and that, finally, got his father's attention.

Glorfindel emerged from his blanket and sat up, blinking owlishly at his son.

"Murder? Who? And where did you hide the body?"

Lórindol pulled his notebook from his jerkin and opened it.

"Well, somebody is trying to murder King Thranduil. I think we can both agree that it would be preferable if he got himself murdered somewhere else, no? Just think of our reputation and the trouble, not to mention the paperwork for poor Sia."

Glorfindel crossed his arms over his chest and blew a strand of hair out of his face.

"Son, firstly, how come you know about this? And secondly, I think we can both agree that it would be much preferable if King Thranduil was not murdered anywhere. Having said that, I will not allow that you and your brother, whom you have without a doubt dragged into this matter as well, shall get involved with this foul story. _If_ there should be any danger, and please note that I said _if_ , then _we_ will take care of it. Have I made myself clear?"

"Of course, very clear, but still, there are questions, and it cannot do any harm to think about the whole affair. Also, I always know everything. So," he said, and looked into his notebook again, "where is uncle Nonfindel at the moment?"

Glorfindel blinked, then he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Firstly, his name is Lórindol. Show some respect. Secondly, what in the name of Eru has this to do with the subject at hand?"

Lórindol shrugged.

"It sounds stupid if I call him Lórindol; it is like I was talking about myself. And better Nonfindel than 'Sugarplum', which brings me back to Thranduil: our dear uncle left Mirkwood six months ago, so I heard, and that is when the attacks on Thranduil's life started. Rumour has it that they did not part ways in peace, so who knows…"

"Valar, have mercy," Glorfindel sighed. "Lórindol, _nobody_ ever parts ways with my brother in peace, but it is usually _him_ who is at risk of being murdered, and with good reason."

"Oh." Lórindol scratched his head, then he crossed out the first item on the list. "I thought it was unlikely, but one has to be certain."

"Indeed. Any more stupid questions?"

"Of course. Have you ever heard of a Dwarf called Kíli?"

"Dwarves now? Why did I not think of that myself?"

"Because you do not have the same sources as I," Lórindol replied smugly, his father's sarcasm escaping him. "So, do you know this Dwarf of not?"

"How can I possibly remember every Dwarf I ever met? The name rings a bell, but I cannot remember why."

"Well, according to my sources, Tauriel had a love affair with this Kíli Dwarf person, but unfortunately, he died in the Battle of Five Armies."

"Yes, getting killed in battle certainly is a good reason to hold a grudge." Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "However, you forgot the small, unimportant detail of this Dwarf being dead, so how likely is it that he would return from wherever it is Dwarfs go after their death to murder Thranduil, son?"

Lórindol whacked his father with a cushion.

"You do not take me seriously, ada! Of course this Kíli is not the assassin, but who knows, maybe his family was angry and blamed his death on Thranduil? Or they did not approve of his dalliance with an Elf? Dwarves can be strange like that. My source said-"

"Lórindol, my patience is running thin. Who is your source?"

"Some of the Mirkwood archers."

"And why, pray tell, would they share such gossip with you?"

Lórindol grinned.

"Ah, a friendly smile here, a bit of lash batting there… I am very fair, after all."

Glorfindel frowned, and he narrowed his eyes.

"There will be no further smiling or lash batting on your part for at least another decade," he said sternly, "or I will send you to Gondor and you can help Arwen design cross-stitch patterns for the next age!"

"That is not fair! You smile and bat your lashes at Sia when you want something from him," Lórindol protested.

"Erestor is at least three thousand years older than you, we are married, and why in Eru's name am I discussing this with you in the first place? No more flirting, no more prying, no more stupid questions, and for crying out loud, do not bother any Dwarves, is that clear?"

"Crystal clear," Lórindol muttered sulkily.

"Good," Glorfindel said, but he knew his son well enough to make a mental note to keep a close eye on him.

* * *

"Lord Elrond would be well advised to charge a toll for anybody wishing to cross that bridge," Ophir said, pointing at the elegant construction across the Bruinen, half a mile before the waterfall. It had been built after Asfaloth and the Frodo-incident, for Elrond had felt a second crossing option beside the ford would be useful. However, the bridge was mostly used by sentinels and enamoured couples, for it led to a secluded spot which offered both soft grass and a breathtaking view of Imladris. It was here where the finish of today's race would be. Everything was decorated for the celebration, and a huge cup was waiting for the winner.

"Why ever would he do so?" Erestor asked, already at the end of his tether. For the last two hours Ophir had complained about everything and moaned about wasted funds. He'd also suggested improvements which were none, at least not in Erestor's eyes, and this was only the last of them.

Ophir gave Erestor a disapproving look over his glasses.

"What a strange question. Why, for the coffers of Imladris, of course," he declared, "and that should be your main interest, my dear Master Erestor."

Erestor had not always been a counselor. He had joined Elrond's council only because his old friend had asked, begged and pleaded with him to do so. And despite robes and scrolls and an appearance of respectability and dullness, Erestor had always been, and would always be, a warrior at heart. He was also half Plains Elf, and this was a combination which made him hastily declare that he had forgotten something of greatest importance in his study and needed to return to his home, immediately. He pulled his horse's head round and urged it into a gallop.

"How very strange," Ophir said, looking over his shoulder after Erestor.

"Indeed," Glorfindel replied, hiding a grin. Ophir had no idea that he had narrowly escaped one of Erestor's rare, but nevertheless quite impressive fits of rage. It was not a pleasant experience to be on the receiving end of one, and though Glorfindel would have greatly enjoyed the spectacle, it would certainly not have found the Lady Galadriel's approval. Celeborn, however…

"As we are now among ourselves, I would like to ask why you are really here, Ophir."

Ophir arched an eyebrow.

"I do not understand your question."

"Oh, you do, my dear Ophir, you absolutely do." Glorfindel gave him his most charming smile. "I have no doubt that Celeborn's spending could do with some management, but the idea that Galadriel would send her accountant with him to Imladris? Laughable. That is the most ridiculous undercover operation I have ever heard of."

Ophir pushed his glasses up; Glorfindel could tell that he was considering whether to let him in on his mission or not. Finally, Ophir nodded.

"I admit that only a part of my duties here concerns Lord Celeborn's spending. You see, the Lord and the Lady will sail west soon."

Glorfindel was surprised.

"They will? How strange, that is the first I have heard about this plan."

Ophir nodded.

"Indeed, they will. Though, probably not at the same time… however. As you well know, Lothlórien is the heart of Elvendom, a beacon of light for all of Middle-earth, and the shining guide for all Elven realms."

Glorfindel thought of Celeborn, and especially the incident with him and Elrond in the wine cellar.

"Yes, shining beacons, no doubt," he said. "This still does not explain your presence here, though."

"Well, with the departure of the Lord and the Lady of the Golden Wood imminent, some council members have expressed worries about their succession."

Glorfindel gave him a sidewise glance.

"Elrond will certainly not leave Imladris, nor will Arwen leave Gondor. Elladan and Elrohir, however…"

"Oh, the worries do not concern whether the twins would wish to ascend the throne of Lothlórien, Lord Glorfindel. The worries are about finding a successor who is worthy of this honour."

"I beg your pardon?" Glorfindel halted Asfaloth and glared at Ophir. "Have you just said that Elladan and Elrohir would not be worthy of Lothlórien?" he snapped. "Pray tell, have you forgotten where you are? And who I am?"

Ophir held up his hands and smiled mildly at Glorfindel. It was the kind of smile mothers reserve for when their children say something cute yet very stupid, and Glorfindel's inner thermostat rose rapidly to boiling point.

"I know who you are; you are Glorfindel of Gondolin, Glorfindel the Balrog-slayer, one of our most admired heroes. If anybody represents all that is good and noble about Elvendom, then it is you. So you will certainly understand that there are doubts about whether Lothlórien, and with it all other Elven realms, could possibly be ruled by anybody who is half-Elven."

"Why not? Who cares? So what?" Glorfindel cried. "What are half-Elves to you, chopped liver?"

Ophir sighed.

"Of course not," he said, "the two young lords are highly thought of in Lothlórien, and Elladan is betrothed to one of our brave Galadhrim. Elrohir, on the other hand… there are strange tales and rumours about his sons, and we still do not know who the mother is. That is why I have come to Imladris, to see for myself and report to the council. Yet the two young lords are not here, and what I have seen so far of the realm did not do much to dispel my doubts. With all due respect, Lord Glorfindel - you have a resident Orc here!"

Glorfindel laughed. He laughed so hard that Ophir wondered whether the rumours about the possible insanity of the famous Balrog-slayer might have a grain of truth to them.

"Indeed we have," Glorfindel said, still chuckling. As quickly as his anger had come, it had left, for the whole thing was just too bizarre and ridiculous to be taken seriously. "And should you continue to insult my family, I will recommend to Lord Celeborn that he make Mauburz the new Lady of the Wood!"

Ophir was outraged.

"Lord Glorfindel! You are ridiculing my concerns!"

Glorfindel patted Asfaloth's neck, and the horse neighed.

"The heart of Elvendom, my dear Ophir, can only be found in the hearts of the Elves. So if you need some answers, that is where you have to look."

Ophir sniffed.

"Thank you for the advice. I prefer to stick to facts, though."

"Suit yourself," Glorfindel muttered.


	6. Day 5, Afternoon: Racing and Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

The streets of Rivendell were filled with Elves, Men and the occasional Dwarf, the latter trying hard to look grumpy and bored, yet secretly just as excited about the upcoming race as the cheerful crowd around them. Not even on the busiest market days had such a large crowd ever gathered in Rivendell. Long queues were forming in front of the betting stalls, with most of the Rivendell Elves betting on Elrond and those from Lórien on Celeborn, while the Mirkwood Elves placed large sums on their own kin and of course Thranduil, their king.

Legolas, however, had demonstratively placed four gold pieces on Mauburz, who would race on her loyal warg Otto. Nobody had ever seen Otto moving faster than an arthritic snail, but the Orc appreciated the gesture. Much to Glorfindel's amusement, Erestor had placed bets on everybody.

"Laugh away," Erestor had grumbled, "at least it means I cannot lose, and nobody will feel left out."

Now Erestor and Glorfindel, together with a nervous Tauriel, stood underneath a large apple tree behind the finishing line. A silver cup, intricately decorated with golden vines, was placed on a pedestal. It would be handed to the winner of the race by Lórindol, who had dressed carefully for the occasion. Clad in a white robe and with a wreath of sweet-smelling white flowers adorning his shiny golden hair, he was the picture of innocence and sweetness.

"You are up to something," Glorfindel said sternly, pointing at his youngest son. "Do not deny it."

Lórindol sighed dramatically, giving his father an insulted look from under long lashes.

"Ada, how can you say such a thing? Here I am, innocently waiting for the outcome of the race. The only thing I am up to is honouring the winner of this race."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes, then reached quickly into Lórindol's left pocked.

"Aha," he said triumphantly, holding up a catapult. "Are you sure?"

His son shrugged.

"I like to be prepared. Such a huge event, with so many people attending - Thranduil might as well paint a target on his back, do you not agree?"

"Nonsense," Glorfindel snapped, and handed the catapult to a puzzled-looking Erestor. "Nothing will happen here. Now try not to be annoying for the next hour, please!"

Tauriel, who had followed this exchange with increasing unease, pulled Lórindol aside as soon as Glorfindel turned his back to them.

"Is there anything I should know?" she hissed. "Did you hear anything?"

Lórindol sighed.

"I find it increasingly exhausting to discuss this case with people who are not capable of having even one logical train of thought. Tauriel, today would be the perfect day for the assassin to strike. Your king will be on show, and during the race, he will not have any guards by his side. There are thousands of people, the murderer would be beyond the frontiers of Imladris and halfway back to wherever he came from before anybody even noticed that Thranduil had been killed."

Tauriel shuddered at the thought, and it didn't sit well with her that this arrogant Elfling had thought of the obvious when she hadn't.

"You are horrible. But though I hate to admit it, you are also right. I wanted to join the race, but he removed me from the list of participants this morning. What do you suggest we do?"

"Well, if _I_ was the head of Thranduil's guard, I would advise my king not to participate in the race in the first place."

Tauriel rolled her eyes.

"Lórindol. We are talking about _Thranduil_ here."

"True. Club him over the head and lock him in Elrond's wine cellar."

"Hogwash. Other options?"

"None, save for praying to the Forest Spirits or the Valar for help."

"Very helpful, thank you. In other words, all we can do is wait here and twiddle thumbs? I do not like that!"

Lórindol didn't reply. He shaded his eyes against the sun, then pointed at two riders who crossed the bridge on their steeds.

"Hah! Now things are getting interesting!"

She blinked into the sun, then her eyes widened.

"By the Forest Spirits, who is that?"

Lórindol grinned.

"Another option, Tauriel."

* * *

"Everybody and their dog seem to have travelled to Imladris today," Elvoron said to his twin-brother Ellón. "It is madness. It looks like a giant anthill."

"I can hear them, and their dogs, too. They even drown out the noise of the river."

"At least we are in time for the race. Maybe we should place a bet?"

"Maybe we should turn around and return to the forest," Ellón grumbled.

Elvoron laughed. "Sometimes I really wonder what Námo is thinking. All I can hear is laughter, and anyway, Imladris is the least likely place for a murder to happen."

They had almost crossed the bridge, and Elvoron waved at the crowd on the other end.

"Erestor and Glorfindel are there, and Lórindol."

"Estorel as well?" Ellón asked.

"No."

"Wise Elf."

"Oh, do not always be so negative, brother! Who knows, maybe sia just did not want us to hide away from our friends?"

"Yes, no doubt." Ellón chuckled. "All hail Námo, the Vala of Death and Doom, spreading light, laughter and merriment since the First Age! I do not agree with you. Yes, there is laughter, but I can feel that something is not right here. Námo was right, something unpleasant is about to happen."

"Sourpuss," Elvoron laughed. "Would it cheer you up if I told you that I can also see a very beautiful redhead?"

"Redhead?" Ellón arched an eyebrow. "How very strange."

Elvoron had no idea what his brother was talking about, but they had reached the end of the bridge now, and were welcomed by their friends. Tauriel had heard about the twin sons of Elladan, of course, but hearing about something and seeing these strange beings in front of her was not the same, and she watched the twins with great fascination.

"Your grandfather will be so happy that you have come," Erestor said.

"And Thranduil will have a heart-attack," Lórindol crowed. "By the way, please meet the head of his guard: twins and brothers, the lovely Tauriel!"

Elvoron bowed. Despite his unusual appearance, he radiated friendliness, and Tauriel returned the greeting with a smile. Ellón, however, just stared at her, which was very disconcerting, considering that he could not see. He cocked his head, the dark, cold pools of his eyes fixed on Tauriel, who felt increasingly uncomfortable.

"I was right," he finally said, and leaned forward until he was only inches away from Tauriel. She could smell the distinctive scent of nutmeg, and shuddered as if she had just stepped into a cold, damp cave. "There is danger," Ellón continued, "and it is right here, Tauriel."

"You must forgive him," Elvoron said, grabbing Ellón by the sleeve of his jerkin and quickly pulling him away. "We are still working on his social skills."

* * *

The riders were all waiting on the starting line, their horses, elks and wargs prancing, impatient for the horn to blow, the sign for the race to begin. Elrond glared daggers at Thranduil, while Asfaloth refused to dignify Lumir, Thranduil's formidable racing elk, with so much as a blink. The only two racers looking calm and unperturbed were Mauburz, who scratched her warg Otto behind his ears, and Celeborn, whose smug smile caused the frown on Elrond's brow to deepen even more.

"And you are very certain you have not placed any bets, my lord?" Ophir asked for the umpteenth time, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"No, I have not, which will be to Lórien's loss," Celeborn replied," for I shall win as certainly as a Hobbit will have second breakfast." He patted Aratoamin's neck, and the horse neighed.

Thranduil snickered.

"A hobbit on a diet, maybe. Lumir would beat your nag even if he had to run on his hind legs."

"Oh, indeed, is that so? Well, we shall see."

With a big smile Celeborn pulled the saddle cloth from Aratoamin's back, and the crowd, previously cheering, chatting and being very noisy, immediately fell silent. Thranduil's eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish stranded on dry land.

"That - that - is wizardry," he finally gasped.

Mauburz scratched her head.

"No," she said. "Not wizardry. Wings."

Indeed. Celeborn's horse sported a formidable set of wings, previously hidden under the heavy saddle cloth. A most wondrous thing, as yet unknown to the people of Middle-earth.

Ophir was shocked.

"My… my lord! Where did you get this - thing from? And what did you pay for it?"

"Be quiet," Celeborn hissed. "I won him in a game of dice, now no more of it."

"But you do not have a budget for gambling," Ophir whined, "could you not simply have asked an eagle? We have a trade agreement with them, and-"

"Will you be quiet now?"

Thranduil's face had changed from deadly pallor to the dark reddish hue of a very angry drunk dwarf.

"This is against the regulations! I protest! I object! I dissent!"

"You may protest, object and dissent all you like, my dear Thranduil, but as you entered this race yourself on the basis that it does not matter what we race with, you cannot try and change the rules now just because you know you will be losing."

"You are cheating," Thranduil snapped. "It is very simply a case of cheating, once again. Is it not, Elrond?"¨

Before Elrond could reply, Legolas clapped his hands.

"Hah! I love this! And I am afraid he is correct, dear ada, is he not, Mistress Mauburz?"

"Yes. As Mauburz said before, not saying horse in letter," she replied, "only said race, not said what you race with. Poor Glorfindel. Will have to sleep on sofa till Yule."

"If he lives to see the night," Elrond grumbled darkly.

"Cheating, cheating, I say!" Thranduil cried once more.

"No, no, nice Lord Celeborn not cheating," Mauburz said gently, folding her hands and looking at Thranduil innocently. "He's only afraid of losing against nice King Thranduil. Must have sympathy, is not easy for him."

"Afraid? What? Me?" Celeborn was outraged. "The Lord of Lothlórien afraid of this forest pixie and his goat? Hah!" He threw his head back and laughed. "Afraid. Me. The laugh."

"Yes, nice Lord Celeborn is afraid, otherwise could have brought horse like everybody else. Is afraid like nice King Thranduil, who is afraid too, that's why has come with elk. Is very funny. Can we race now?"

"Yes, let us race," Celeborn snapped, "and just so you can see that I am not afraid of anything or anybody, I shall not make use of Aratoamin's wings. I do not need them, because I will win in any case. So there. Can we start, Elrond?"

Elrond longed for the comfortable sofa in his study, a glass of wine, a nice book and the absence of just about everybody but himself, but then this was A.C.O.T.E.R., what else but absolute disaster and chaos could be expected?

"Yes, yes, let us race, by all means. I guess I should be grateful nobody turned up on a bloody Balrog," he muttered. The riders mounted their horses - winged and non-winged ones - elks and wargs, and when the horn signalled the beginning of the race, they sped off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay; the story is now almost finished, the next chapter will follow within the next few days. Thanks for your patience!


	7. Day 5, Evening: The Dead and the Undying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya (who deserves the Golden Mirkwood Moose for this chapter)
> 
> This chapter contains a Dwarf. Please handle with special care and love.

Had Celeborn not been so delirious with wine and victory last autumn after the game of dice with the travelling Druédain merchant, he might have found the time to make further inquiries about the formidable steed he had just won. The man could then have informed him that Aratoamin, the marvellous winged horse, had grown up to the melodious tones of harp and lute, and did not appreciate harsh or loud sounds at all.

Alas, Celeborn had _not_ made any inquiries, but emptied three bottles of cheap wine and celebrated until the wee hours. So he was taken completely by surprise when Aratoamin did _not_ speed off when the Mirkwood horn sounded out as the signal to start the race, but rolled his eyes, flattened his ears, reared up and sent his rider flying through the air instead, with the Lord of the Golden Wood landing hard on his backside, while the rest of the participants galloped off across the meadow, braids, manes and clods flying.

"Eru help!" Ophir gasped, but the creator was obviously not interested in racing, and while Celeborn cried out in pain and the crowd in surprise, Aratoamin spread his wings and ascended into the sky, where he circled over Imladris, looking like an oddly-shaped eagle. From time to time he neighed, as if to mock the unfortunate Celeborn, who picked himself up, rubbed his tailbone and craned his neck towards the sky.

"Will you come down, you rotten beast!" he barked, shaking his fist, but Aratoamin paid no heed, following three passing ducks instead.

The other riders, focused on the race, hadn't noticed the incident. Elrond on Asfaloth and Thranduil on Lumir quickly broke away from the rest of the field; Elrond concentrating on the course, a deep frown on his brow, Thranduil riding without saddle or cloth, shouting encouraging words to his mount.

High above the riders, on the other side of the bridge, Erestor shielded his eyes against the sun and blinked up at the sky.

"What on earth is that?"

"Either the Black Speech of Mordor or Mirkwood curses," Lórindol said. "Whatever it is, it works. Lord Elrond must be careful or Thranduil's elk will outrun Asfaloth."

Erestor sighed.

"No. I mean _that_ ," he said, and pointed at Aratoamin, who had just successfully executed two somersaults.

"Oh. That. Well, I would say it is a horse," Lórindol replied. "With wings."

"So my eyes have not played a trick on me then?"

"No, sia. It is a horse. With wings."

"You just said that."

Elvoron's face lit up with excitement.

"Brother, things are getting interesting; a flying horse has just been sighted!"

Ellón frowned. "A - _what_?"

"The horse of your great-grand-ada," Lórindol explained. "Tauriel and I thought there was something suspicious about that beast. We did not think of wings, though, just his usual cheating. Which did not work out, it seems. He was thrown off. Ouch."

Tauriel shook her head.

"Indeed, we did not predict this. And I do not like it."

Ellón clicked his tongue, showing white, pointed teeth, the sight of which gave Tauriel goose-bumps.

"Nor do I. It is not about the horse, though. Something is coming. Something will happen."

"Oh yes, we are all doomed. Doomed, doomed, I say!" Lórindol said dramatically and rolled his eyes. "Ellón, you sound like Lord Elrond. Oh, look, he is now taking the lead! Ah, King Thranduil the Magnificent and Unbearable will not like that!"

Indeed, Elrond was now leading, if only by Asfaloth's head length, but they had almost reached the bridge, and if he could keep his speed up, he would very likely be the winner, because due to Lumir's antlers, it would be very difficult for Thranduil to overtake his competitor on the bridge.

"Go, grand-ada, go!" Elvoron yelled, throwing his arms in the air. "You can do it!"

"Give it all, Asfaloth! The winner takes all the apples!" Glorfindel yelled.

Legolas was fourth, some distance behind Elrond and Thranduil, but Lórindol suspected that he was not putting too much effort into the race. How odd, but then again, one never knew how Legolas' brain worked. Maybe he didn't want to annoy his father? Or he wasn't in the mood. Or-

"Good grief!"

The crowd gasped and cried out - Legolas' horse suddenly halted and bucked, throwing the fairest leaf of Thranduil's tree through the air as a child would throw a doll. Legolas, taken completely by surprise, got his left arm caught in the reins, and was dragged along by the bolting horse. Mauburz, who was riding close behind him, tried to stop, but Otto, unperturbed, had other ideas, and stubbornly refused to halt.

"Stop! Stop! Stupid warg!" she cried. "Must help nice Legolas!", but Otto's paws had now touched the bridge, just when Asfaloth and Lumir had almost reached the end.

Legolas' horse was bucking and kicking, and so keeping anybody from approaching him or his badly shaken rider. Suddenly, a dark figure came from behind the trees, running at great speed towards the bolting horse without fear or hesitation.

Ellón frowned. "What is happening?"

"Legolas has been thrown off his horse! Oh, this looks bad, but Estorel is rushing to his side! The horse is trying to kick him! Ah, near miss - now he has caught him!"

"Estorel - of course. Do you think Legolas is badly injured?"

Erestor put his hands on his cheeks and shook his head, not believing the scene unfolding in front of his eyes.

"Just _what_ is going on here? Ellón, you are right. Something is not right. Something-"

A terrible explosive blast ripped through the air, destroying the bridge, sending beams and riders and horses flying, filling the valley with smoke and fire. The blast knocked those closest over, and there was a moment of confusion, as if time stood still. Nobody moved - the Elves of Imladris simply could not understand what just had happened.

The stench of sulphur filled the air, and the smoke made Lórindol's eyes sting. He was the first to recover from the shock, and quickly took in the situation.

"Somebody blew up the bridge," he screamed. "Eru help, sia, somebody blew up the bridge!"

Erestor didn't reply. He just stared at the chaos and destruction in front of him. Lumir had got stuck with one antler in between two beams, which had probably saved his life. But where was Thranduil? Asfaloth was standing on the remainder of the bridge head, sooty and badly shaken, but alive. The horse looked at Glorfindel, his master, who had been knocked over and was trying to sit up, holding his head. Asfaloth's rider, however, was gone.

"Glorfindel! Is all well with you?"

Glorfindel raised his hand.

"I am alive!"

Erestor felt relief, but at the same time, fear grasped his heart.

"Where is Elrond?"

"There! There, sia, in the water!" Lórindol jumped up and down, and pointed at a figure in the water, clinging to a splintered beam. Before his son could say another word, Erestor threw off his robe and ran to the riverbank, dove into the water and swam towards Elrond, fighting the current and dodging floating debris.

"Erestor!" Glorfindel stood up and ran along the bank on wobbly legs, face pale, shaken to the core. He knew that Erestor, like all Plains Elves, could swim like an otter, but this did not keep him from feeling the greatest fear. Who knew what else might happen?

Tauriel was beyond rational thought or even fear- she was in a state of panic and only one question possessed her mind.

"Where is my king? Where is Thranduil?" she repeated over and over.

The current of the Bruinen was strong, dragging those unfortunate enough not to have reached the bank or grabbed onto shrubs or stones swiftly towards the waterfall and certain death. At last she spotted Thranduil; he clung to one of the twin rocks which divided the river. A Mirkwood Elf and Mauburz were in the middle of the river, fighting against the cold water.

"I must save my king, I must save him," Tauriel said to herself.

"I thought Woodland Elves could not swim?"

Lórindol put his hand on her shoulder.

"Stay here. Let me do this."

His voice was calm, and his hand unexpectedly strong, but Tauriel didn't listen. She pushed Lórindol away, and was in the water before he could reach her. That went well for about ten seconds, then she sank like a stone.

"So Woodland Elves _cannot_ swim," Lórindol sighed. "And just when I wore my best robes." He quickly slipped out of his elegant garment and jumped into the water, disappearing from sight.

Ellón sniffed and shuddered.

"Somebody blew up the bridge?"

"Yes. We must act, brother, and quickly," Elvoron said. "Erestor is already helping grand-ada. Tauriel jumped in the water, but cannot swim. Very stupid, but Lórindol is fishing her out. Thranduil is clinging to the left twin stone. You go and get him, I will go after the other two in the water. Agreed?"

Ellón gave a short nod, then headed for the water. One could not have told that he was blind; not for a second did he hesitate, and once in the water, he swam directly towards Thranduil, whom he could clearly hear and smell. That was enough when hunting for crayfish, so it was enough when hunting for the King of Mirkwood.

* * *

"Help! Help!"

Thranduil, clinging to his rock and fighting hard not to be dragged away by the current, turned his head. This was no easy task, for his head hurt terribly and so did his leg, but he couldn't just ignore the pitiful cries.

"Help me!"

It was Elrond's orc, swimming for her life and screaming for help whenever her head bobbed above the water. She was stronger than he would have imagined, struggling valiantly against the current that pulled her towards him and the waterfall, but it was a hopeless fight. She couldn't reach the stones on her own; the weight of her clothing dragged her down, but maybe, if he reached out... Thranduil stretched his arm as far as he could, and indeed, when Mauburz drifted by, he managed to grab one of her braids. He winced as the strain tore at his shoulder muscles, but he had lived through worse, and while Mauburz howled and cried, he wound her braid around his hand until he managed to get hold of her collar. Then, with a last powerful pull, he hauled her onto the rock next to him.

"Oh, oh, horrible," she gasped, "Mauburz almost drowned like rat!"

Thranduil didn't reply; his head felt as if a dwarf was splitting it with a battle axe. Seeing two Mauburzes, he felt faint. When a sudden eddy caught at his legs, his fingers slipped off the rock and he was dragged under the water. This brought him back to his senses but still he was sucked down towards the bottom, the current swirling faster and faster, a deadly merry-go-round, with the water a leaden weight on his chest. He began to see stars, his lungs burning, and the more he struggled, the faster he seemed to be dragged towards his death. Was this really it? Would this be his death? King Thranduil the Exceptional and Impressive, Most Splendid and Feared Ruler of Mirkwood, King by the Valar's Grace, Ruler of 2000 Years, Shining Star of Greenwood The Green, Fairest of all Elven Lords, Light of the Dark Ages, Son of Oropher the magnificent, Elbereth's gift to the Eldar, etc. etc. etc., to drown like a rat? In _Imladris_ , of all places? Now that was adding insult to injury!

Now the lack of oxygen was tricking his brain, making him see things - weird colours and fire, the faces of people long dead, and suddenly, out of nowhere, a ghoul straight from the Mere of Dead Faces, a terrible being with dead eyes, sharp teeth and black hair surrounding him like algae. Long, claw-like fingers were reaching out for him, but Thranduil, despite being almost unconscious, would not go without a fight, and struggled against his attacker, punching him on the nose. He stood no chance, though; the terrible beast simply grabbed him around the middle, dragging him into the abyss. Everything went black.

"Sia, now would be the perfect moment for a little help," Ellón thought while dropping down the waterfall, clinging to the unconscious Thranduil. "And if he has broken my nose, I will not talk to you again for at least an age!"

"Oh well, we cannot have that," Námo said. He put his hand on his son's shoulder, and time stood still, the waterfall froze, and Ellón found himself in the pool at the bottom of it. He dragged Thranduil's lifeless body onto the bank, laying the king down in the grass. As soon as he was sure that Thranduil was safe, he flopped on his back, gasping for air and touching his nose carefully. It hurt, but was not broken.

"You must admit that this was a great adventure," he heard his parent's amused voice next to him. "Are you still bored?"

Ellón groaned.

"I cannot believe what just happened here. This is madness! You cannot go around killing people just for your entertainment, sia!"

Námo held up his hands.

"Now, first, yes, I can, if I want to, but I was not the one who blew up the bridge. Second, it would be for _your_ entertainment, not mine, because you are the one who complained about being bored. Third, nobody died. Everybody got shaken up a bit, I admit that, but they are all seasoned warriors, they will survive. Even that ridiculous elk."

Ellón didn't reply. He reached out for Thranduil and put his hand on his chest, then he quickly sat up.

"Nobody died? Then how come he is not breathing?"

* * *

Thranduil felt a little light-headed, as if he'd had too much of his vintage 2948 2nd Ager. He rested comfortably in the grass; the sun warmed his skin and he could hear bees buzzing past his ears. How refreshing his little nap had been!

"Thranduil, time to wake up." A familiar voice, but he couldn't quite place it. And anyway, it was just too pleasant resting here to follow the command.

"I told you that this would not work. Let me try."

"No, you cannot treat a king like that. Now put that bucket away!"

Now that voice he would have known among a chorus of a thousand. A dream, no doubt. He was still asleep, how nice. Thranduil sighed happily, then something tickled his nose, and with a sneeze, he sat up. He blinked into the sun, and when his eyes finally adjusted to the bright daylight, he found himself in the company of Amaris, who wore a chain of wildflowers on his head and held a stalk of grass. Beside him stood a disappointed-looking dwarf, holding a bucket. There was water spilling over its rim.

"See? It still works," Amaris said, rolling the stalk between his fingers. "Cold water is only fun in winter, Kíli."

Thranduil blinked again. Eight golden speckles in the left eye and thirteen in the right. Yes, no doubt, it was Amaris, his beloved older brother. Definitely a dream then, for Amaris had sailed west with Gil-galad many years ago. And Kíli, Thorin's sister son - well, Kíli was dead.

Kíli pulled a face.

"What do you know, cold water is always fun. Elves are so boring. Are you sure I can't-?"

"If you do not stop this nonsense immediately, you will get no more wine, son!" Amaris said sternly.

"Thranduil, enough of the dozing, you have to leave now. You cannot stay here."

Thranduil turned his head. _Gil-galad_? A nightmare, then.

"Brother, it is so good to see you again," Amaris said cheerfully. From afar, Thranduil could hear music, singing and very un-elven roaring laughter.

_"Blunt the knives and bend the forks!  
Smash the bottles, burn the corks!"_

"Where am I?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"The Halls of Waiting," Amaris said, waving his hand. "Or rather, the grounds surrounding the Halls of Waiting. You must know that waiting in halls is very boring, so we are having a little garden party."

Now Thranduil was wide awake.

"The Halls of Waiting? What? Why is a _dwarf_ in the Halls of Waiting?"

Gil-galad shrugged.

"Sometimes, we like to invite friends. The more, the merrier."

The laughter and singing in the distance got louder and wilder.

_"That's what Bilbo Baggins hates,  
So carefully, carefully with the plates!"_

"But - a _dwarf_? In the Halls of Waiting? And why are _you_ here, anyway? I thought you had sailed west?"

Amaris waved his hand.

"Well, the compass broke. And then again, west, north - it is all the same."

"No, it is not!" Thranduil jumped up. "It is actually the difference between life and death!" He took a step back. "Wait a moment - does this mean you are dead? And I am dead too? Is that it? Will I have to stay here with you now for all eternity? With you and him? And a dwarf?"

"Stuck-up prig," Kíli grumbled.

Gil-galad shuddered.

"Eru forbid! No, no, you go back where you came from; it is bad enough we are stuck here as Námo's holiday cover, I really do not need you on top of it."

Thranduil's face bore an expression of utter bafflement.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

"Ah, never mind," Amaris said, pressing a kiss on his younger brother's cheek and stroking his hair lovingly. "It was good seeing you again, little one. I have missed you. But now you must return. And please, do make your peace with Nonfindel. I like him."

"Yes, go and bring him back to Mirkwood, I doubt you will find anybody else insane enough to spend his life with you," Gil-galad added.

Kíli put the bucket down and tapped Thranduil on the shoulder.

"Oh, and while you're at it, tell that pixie elf to keep his hands of my lass, will you? That one's even worse than Legolas, and far too young, anyway."

Thranduil felt faint. His legs gave way under him, and he fell down. Amaris caught him, laying him softly in the grass.

Kíli arched an eyebrow.

"May I _now_?" he asked.

Amaris sighed, then he nodded.

"If you must."

Kíli cheered and reached for the bucket.

"Woo-hoo!"


	8. Day 5, Night: Blood and Blessings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya (who deserves the Golden Mirkwood Moose for this chapter)
> 
> This chapter also contains a Dwarf. Please handle with special care and love.

The Bruinen carried Tauriel quickly towards the waterfall. She didn't fight the current; close to drowning, she was in a dreamlike state, hardly caring what was happening to her any more. Before her inner eye, scenes of her life replayed, and for a brief moment, she found herself watching a very odd scene of her beloved Kíli, standing in a beautiful garden, accompanied by two Elves and pouring a bucket of water over Thranduil's head. Just as she was wondering what that was supposed to mean, she was grabbed and pulled to the surface, where she gasped for air. With breathing came pain, and with pain came the awareness that someone, some _thing_ , had its teeth buried in her shoulder, and was dragging her through the water. She tried to struggle, but the creature shook its head and growled angrily. Her limbs were leaden and she was exhausted, so she ceased all resistance. At least she could breathe.

Something hit her face - a rope? Then a tug, another one, and within a short time, Tauriel found herself lying on the bank of the Bruinen, coughing up river water and wheezing, while a blanket was wrapped around her and somebody pressed a piece of cloth on the bleeding bite mark on her shoulder. Tauriel blinked at the many worried faces looking down at her, and only when she finally managed to turn her head did she realise that the growling beast who had saved her life was actually Lórindol, who sat in the grass, untangling his wet hair while a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

* * *

Ellón's hand was still resting on Thranduil's chest, and he sighed with relief when he finally felt the king breathing again.

"He is alive - good. Master Erestor would have been unbearable for the next two ages if Thranduil had died here in Imladris, considering all the trouble this would have caused grand ada. Not to mention all the paperwork for him."

Námo arched an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose.

"Administration was invented in Mordor, my child, so please do not blame it on me. You have done well, rescuing the King of the Golden Wood; now please excuse me, I have important matters to attend to."

Ellón shook his head.

"What could possibly be more important than what has just happened here, sia?" he asked. "And what am I supposed to do with him?"

Námo pressed a kiss on his son's forehead, which felt to Ellón like being touched with an icecube.

"They will soon come and tend to his wounds. As for you, keep watch over Mirkwood."

"It would be of great help if you could tell me why I should do so, sia," Ellón grumbled, but Námo had already left. Ellón sighed and dropped back down on the grass, waiting for the rescue party to arrive and trying to invent a half-decent explanation for how the two of them had managed to survive the tumble down the waterfall.

Thranduil didn't move a muscle, but he was awake.

 _Sia,_ he thought. _Sia, I have heard that name before._

* * *

Upon their arrival, Elvoron had likened Imladris to a giant anthill. That was now more appropriate than ever; it _was_ an anthill, yes, but one disturbed by a giant boot. Elves, Men and Dwarves were gathering in the streets and taverns, discussing the events of the day; messengers were already on their way to the various realms, and everybody hoped to hear news soon.

"We must thank the Valar," one of the healers said while trying to apply a salve to a long scratch on Lórindol's forehead. "Such a disaster, and no fatalities!"

"The Valar?" Lórindol wrinkled his nose and quickly moved away from the spatula covered in a foul smelling green substance. "Rather be grateful for the unusually high number of capable swimmers per square mile in Imladris," he said. "And stop fussing, I am fine." He looked over his shoulder to Legolas, who was having his arm splinted.

"And we should definitely thank the Forest Spirits of Mirkwood as well, do you not agree, Legolas? Who knows what terrible fate might have befallen you if your horse had not shied just before that cursed bridge."

"Then my gratitude should be firmly with my horse - and your brother, of course," Legolas replied, giving Lórindol a blinding smile. "I wish I could thank him. Alas, he seems to have disappeared, just like the sons of Elrohir. But such is life - the ones you seek are elusive, the ones you wish to avoid ever present. However, my father will certainly wish to talk to them and express his gratitude."

"They will be honoured."

Lórindol bowed, then turned his back to Legolas.

"Good luck with that," he said to himself, knowing his brother and the twins all too well.

* * *

While the injured were treated in the House of Healing, Erestor and Glorfindel investigated the smouldering remains of the bridge. The guards of Imladris shielded them from curious onlookers, and they had invited a visiting Dwarf, Dûl, for his opinion on the explosive used. Erestor had sent a protesting Elrond along with Mauburz off to the House of Healing. The Lord of Imladris had suffered some bruising and scratches but luckily no serious injuries, but Erestor insisted he should go and see a healer. Erestor himself had quickly changed into dry clothes, though his hair was still wet, clinging to his shoulders like algae. Glorfindel was unhurt, but his ears were still ringing from the explosion, a rather unpleasant sensation. Both of them could have done with some rest, but they wanted to use the last light of the evening sun for their investigation. Above them, Aratoamin was still circling over Imladris.

"So, what do you say, Master Dwarf?" Erestor asked. "Do you think this was of Orcish origin?"

Dûl scratched his beard.

"Eh, that's difficult to tell, there's nothing left of the explosive, after all." He sniffed. "It doesn't smell Orcish, though. Whatever Orcs use to blow things up always stinks. It stinks terribly, and this-" He sniffed again. "No. Not Orcish. But you're lucky. Here's somebody who knows all about explosives. Wait a second - eh, Dûlla, come here!" He waved, and two guards were pushed aside by a portly Dwarf lady with most splendid whiskers, who made her way towards the group.

"Dûlla, my sister," Dûl introduced her with great pride. "If there's anything you want to blow up, she's the Dwarf to ask. She'll reduce a mountain to a pile of rubble within seconds."

"Well met, Mistress Dûlla," Erestor said, bowing politely. "I am Erestor, advisor to Lord Elrond."

"I knew festivities in Imladris were lively, Master Erestor, but I didn't expect them to be quite like this. Flying horses and exploding bridges - reminds me of my wedding. Well now, what can I do for you?"

"We hope that you may tell us where the explosive used in this crime came from."

Dûlla nodded. She gathered up her skirts and waded into the water, inspecting the beam. Then she returned to dry ground, picking up pieces of wood here and there, studying them closely, muttering to herself in dwarfish and shaking her head from time to time.

"Well now," she finally said, "whatever it was, it wasn't of Orcish origin, much too weak. If this had been an explosive they use in warfare, not only the bridge would be gone, but half the hill along with it."

She rubbed her chin, and the small bells in her whiskers chimed.

"If only we had more evidence."

"I can help with that, Mistress Dwarf!"

They turned around, and much to Erestor and Glorfindel's anger, a very cheerful Lórindol hurried towards them. He hadn't even bothered to change his clothes, he was wet from head to toe, and the scratch on this forehead didn't improve his overall appearance.

Glorfindel wagged his finger at his wayward youngest.

"Lórindol! Did I not make myself absolutely clear that you were supposed to stay in the House of Healing? What are you doing here? Are you mad? You are injured!"

Lórindol waved him off. His cheeks were flushed with excitement; he was obviously enjoying the situation very much and didn't have the good grace to even pretend to be scared.

"Ah bah, it is only a scratch. And no, sia, I will not return, the healers have more serious cases to attend to," he cut off Erestor, who had just opened his mouth to deliver a stern lecture.

"My apologies, Mistress Dûlla," Glorfindel sighed, defeated. "This is our youngest son, Lórindol. I am afraid his manners leave a lot to be desired."

"Oh, you are a female Dwarf? How exciting!" Lórindol gave Dûlla his brightest, most charming smile. "I have never seen a female Dwarf before!" He bowed. "Your whiskers - most splendid!"

"That is it. I am sending him to count spiders in Mirkwood for the next decade," Glorfindel groaned, but Dûlla was delighted.

"Aw, now aren't you the cutest little Elf!" She pinched Lórindol's cheek and winked at him. "If you don't want him, I'll take him with me anytime, Master Erestor, no questions asked!"

"Oh good grief," Glorfindel groaned, covering his eyes with his hands.

"Oh, I would love that! You must know that I like Dwarves very much! And here I have something which might be of interest to you, Mistress Dûlla. What do you think?"

Lórindol reached into the pocket of his jerkin and produced several pieces of stone. They were fractured, but had once been part of a larger, possibly rectangular piece. Dûlla took them, whistled through her teeth and examined them with great interest. Then she shook her head and frowned.

"That is not good. Not good at all. Where did you find them, dear boy?"

Lórindol gestured towards the large apple tree.

"There, in the grass."

"In what pattern? I mean - where they all in one place, or in a line, or-"

"A line, yes."

Again she shook her head, then she handed the pieces to Erestor, who looked at them suspiciously.

"I have bad news, Master Erestor. The device which made your bridge explode was definitely not built by Orcs."

"And this is bad news - why?"

She sighed.

"Because it was made by Dwarves."

* * *

Night had come, and with it finally some calm and peace after a day with far too much trouble and excitement. In Thranduil's chambers, Lórindol sat in a comfortable winged chair, sipping from time to time from a glass of Miruvor. Exhaustion had caught up with him, he was very tired, but for nothing in the world would he have missed the opportunity of a conversation with the legendary Golden King of Mirkwood.

There were more similarities between Lórindol's father Glorfindel and Thranduil than either of them would have liked to admit. Both were warriors, both had lived for many millennia, and both had learned that it could be of great benefit to let people believe they had become a bit short-witted through the ages. While Glorfindel enjoyed his performance as "tired, battle-worn warrior" very much, Thranduil had cultivated his act as the vain, choleric and eccentric King of Mirkwood.

But in truth, Thranduil was a great and wise king, with a sharp mind and a fine understanding of Elvish nature. He had a great power of observation, and he knew a fellow spirit when he saw one. It hadn't come as a great surprise when Lord Elrond had informed him, rather embarrassed, that his grandsons were unfortunately unavailable at the moment, but that young Lórindol would be honoured to pay his respects.

Thranduil was resting on a divan, a guard standing on each side of him. He wore a magnificent robe of dark green velvet and golden silk, hiding his body which Elrond's healers had covered in ointments and plasters. On his head, he wore a crown of white berries. His leg was broken, so was his collarbone, and even the smallest movement caused Thranduil great pain. He did not give anything away, though, and to Lórindol, Thranduil looked like calm personified.

"I am glad to find you so well, my king," Lórindol said politely, secretly wondering how in the Valar's name Thranduil and Ellón had managed to survive the drop down the waterfall.

"For that I have to thank the son of Elrohir," Thranduil said, and bowed his head. "He saved me, and his brother my people. And I thank you as well, young Lórindol. Tauriel is very dear to me." He watched Lórindol carefully. Clad in a simple blue robe, his golden hair held back by two simple braids, the young elf was a picture of innocence and sweetness - carefree and happy. He actually looked a lot like his uncle Nonfindel at the moment, a thought which Thranduil quickly tried to shake off, for the last thing he needed now was a reminder of his heartache. Yes, sweet and innocent, and yet - and yet, Thranduil had seen the bite mark on Tauriel's shoulder. How was it possible that this beautiful creature had caused such an injury?

"Oh, they take to danger like ducks to water," Lórindol said. "I guess they had a lot of fun. I was happy to help, by the way. I suggest you learn to swim, though. You never know what might happen. But please do not declare war on the Dwarves now, though, for they are completely innocent."

Thranduil, who had a terrible headache, found it difficult to follow Lórindol's mental leaps.

"What makes you think I would declare war on the Dwarves?"

"Well, has my father not told you yet? It was established that the explosive device was of Dwarfish origin. But the Dwarves are innocent. That aside, I like Dwarves. They are fun, and courageous. Life is never boring if you are in the company of Dwarves."

"I guess that depends on your point of view. However, please know that you and the sons of Elrohir will always be welcome in my realm. And also your brother, for he saved my son."

Thranduil looked out of the window, where the first stars began to show in the night sky.

"Legolas is now a father himself, and so he begins to understand what it means to worry for your own child. There is no great fear, Lórindol, than the fear of losing your child. Once you become a father, you will understand as well. And I had nobody to share this fear with. I suppose Lord Elrohir would understand, as he is in the same position."

He gave Lórindol a sidewise glance.

"But I digress. As I said, Mirkwood will always welcome you."

"I am honoured, my king," Lórindol replied. "I cannot wait to visit your realm, for I have heard many great tales about it. Uncle Nonfindel's letters were hilarious."

Thranduil shuddered, and Lórindol stood up and bowed politely.

"But now I have to leave; please excuse me, sia is waiting for me."

Thranduil nodded.

"Of course. You have your priorities right, young one. Family always comes first. One last question, for I am curious about this ancient language, Lórindol. 'Sia' - what is the meaning of this word?"

Lórindol arched an eyebrow, which emphasised for an instant his likeness with Erestor.

"Sia? It means 'parent', my king."

Thranduil waved his hand impatiently.

"Yes, yes, I am aware of that. But you never call Glorfindel by that name, so it must have a special meaning?"

"It is the name for the parent who bears the child, my king. Maybe there is more to it, but I am afraid I have never been a keen student, and so I did not learn the old language."

Thranduil sighed sympathetically.

"A pity this language is now lost. I understand nobody speaks it any more?"

Lórindol gave Thranduil a big smile.

"Oh, not _completely_ lost, my king! Rabbit is the only surviving full-blooded Mordorian Plains Elf, and of course _he_ still speaks it. Haldir learned it from him, and then there is Bramble, their daughter. She knows all the swear words, if you are interested. The grandfather of my sia Erestor was a Plains Elf, but sia only picked up some words from Rabbit. So if you wish to learn more, you will have to ask Rabbit."

"I might do that, thank you," Thranduil said, having no intention whatsoever of going anywhere near Rabbit, that dangerous yellow-eyed creature, unless armed with six archers and a basket of raw meat. "I bid you a good night, Lórindol of the Golden Flower."

"Good night to you as well, my king, and sweet dreams."

Lórindol pulled the door to Thranduil's chamber closed behind him, and made a beeline to Ellón's room.

* * *

Ellón was sitting on his bed, braiding his hair. When Lórindol entered his room, as usual without knocking, he threw his brush in the direction of the young elf, missing his head by a hair's breadth.

"A miss is as good as a mile," Lórindol grinned, picking up the hairbrush and throwing it back at the blind Elf, who caught it deftly mid-air.

"How somebody with such impeccable manners as Erestor managed to produce an offspring as badly behaved as you will always remain a mystery to me," Ellón grumbled. "I would have thought this day was exciting enough to exhaust even you, penneth."

"I am tired, that is true," Lórindol admitted. "But I need to talk to you."

Ellón had finished another braid and reached for a clasp next to him.

"If this should be yet another ridiculous theory of yours regarding real or imagined conspiracies concerning Thranduil, I do not wish to hear it."

"A pity. Just so you know, I have figured out who is after Thranduil's life, but I am not here about that. I am here to warn you. Thranduil is on your track, Ellón."

"As usual, I have no idea what you are talking about."

Lórindol stretched his body in a rather feline way.

"Sometimes I really wonder if I am surrounded by dimwits. Just because I look like I have just fallen directly from the Golden Tree of Gondolin and do not sport pointed teeth and long black hair like my brother, people tend to forget that we have the same parents. And with that, the same ancestors."

Ellón narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By that I mean that my Plains Elf heritage is as strong as Estorel's, maybe even stronger. I just do not _look_ like it, and people always judge a book by its cover. That is fine by me, it suits my plans. But my nose is just as good as Rabbit's, my dear Ellón, and I knew from the first moment you and your brother arrived here that you were not placed in a basket by Yavanna under a Mallorn tree! You can tell that story to Lindir, he might believe it - I do not!"

Ellón pointed his hairbrush angrily at Lórindol.

"Not another word. I will not discuss my parentage with you."

"Yes, yes, big secret, taboo, nobody may talk about it. Oh please. I am fifty years older than you, and yet you are already fully grown up! Do you really think nobody else has come to certain conclusions? I am actually surprised there is not more gossip about Elrohir's secret Plain's Elf lover! Never mind, I do not care, but Thranduil asked questions. For whatever reasons, the identity of your sia is of interest to him. So be careful. He is no fool, and he wants answers."

"That - is not good," Ellón said, more to himself than to Lórindol. "And he is wrong. So are you. Very wrong." Then he suddenly halted, as if he had heard something, and Lórindol could smell the distinct scent of nutmeg.

"Lórindol, you said you knew who is after Thranduil's life. Who is it?"

"Ha!" Lórindol rubbed his hands triumphantly. "Now you are suddenly interested in my ridiculous theories? Ah, but I am afraid you will have to wait for tomorrow, like everybody else. Tomorrow, I will reveal the big secret. So you better be there! And tell your brother!"

Before Ellón could ask further questions, Lórindol was out of the door, slamming it shut.

"I do not like this," Ellón said. "I fear this will end in disaster."

Námo nodded, picked up the hairbrush and began to brush his hair.

"Very likely. But remember: just because our enthusiastic young hero does not know yet how to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, it does not mean that he did not find the right pieces."

"Great," Ellón muttered. "More puzzles. Just what I needed."


	9. Day 6, Morning: Revelations and Redheads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya.

Imladris was still sleeping when Estorel went for a walk. He was always up with the first birds; predawn was kinder on his eyes than bright sunlight, and he found it easier to think without the constant distraction of people's presence, their irritating noises and scents. In that, he was very much like Rabbit, who also avoided social gatherings like Otto the warg his weekly bath. How sia Erestor made it through the noise of Lord Elrond's council meetings without losing his mind and ripping off heads was beyond Estorel's comprehension.

Today, there was much for him to think about. Unlike Lórindol, Estorel followed his instincts more than logic; and trusted his gut feeling more than facts. And to him, the whole story about Thranduil's assassin and the detonation of the bridge over the Bruinen simply didn't feel right. He couldn't help it; he felt as if they were all being led on, as if somebody had staged a dramatic play for them.

The only one who had really been in danger, so Estorel believed, had been Legolas, and that simply made no sense. He had tried to explain his thoughts to Lórindol, but his brother was too enamoured of his own theories to consider other options.

"Brother, I am not saying that you are wrong, for I also feel that something is fishy about this whole thing, but tell me, why would anybody wish to harm Legolas? I mean, his charming personality aside?"

Estorel had no answer. To him, Legolas was perfect in every way, had always been since he had first seen him in the Great Hall on that Yule many years ago, when he had still been an Elfling, and the golden haired prince from Mirkwood had looked to him like the most beautiful creature on Arda.

Estorel had now reached the training grounds, and picked up one of the wooden sticks the guards used to practice their sword fighting skills. He made a few moves, then hit one of the straw training dummies.

"I should be angry that I had to leave my comfortable bed at such an ungodly hour just so I could thank you," an amused voice said behind him. Estorel dropped the stick and spun around. Legolas sat on a tree trunk, arm in a sling, face badly bruised, but smiling.

"I did not hear you arrive," Estorel said, angry with himself.

Legolas grinned.

"No reason to be upset. Woodland Elves are sneaky, as you know, and I have an advantage of 3000 years in honing my sneakiness. Why did you not accept my father's invitation?"

Estorel shrugged.

"I am not good at such things - talking to kings and lords."

"Well, I am neither nor. So no reason to avoid _me_."

Estorel picked up the stick, gave Legolas a sidewise glance and returned to the straw dummy.

"I am not avoiding you."

"I am very pleased to hear that. So, may I thank you then for saving my life?"

Estorel nodded, and began attacking the dummy. He wished Legolas would just leave; unlike the rest of Imladris, he did not see anything heroic in his deed.

"It was nothing. Anyone could have done it. I wish you would not make a song and dance of it."

Legolas stood up, and limped towards the young Elf.

"That is very true, but nobody but you actually _did_ it. Throwing yourself between the horse and me - that was both heroism and madness. I am undecided which I admire more. But I do not wish to keep you from your duties, Estorel. I just wanted to thank you. Your parents must be very proud of you."

Estorel halted his mistreatment of the straw dummy and pulled a face.

"You think? I do not know. Sia said it was a brave thing to do, but he would rather I not break my neck while he was watching."

Legolas laughed.

"Ah, Master Erestor, always so considerate! But he is right. My wife and I, we would not want our son to risk his life for some random Elf, either."

"Then you better improve the training of your horses in Mirkwood," Estorel snapped, smashing the stick on the ground. "And now please excuse me, I have some important business to attend!"

With that, he stormed off, leaving a rather puzzled Legolas behind.

* * *

Mauburz sat and braided her hair in front of her bedroom window. It overlooked the market square, and she had an excellent view on the goings on outside. There was a "closed" sign on the door of her shop; it had been difficult enough to get up this morning, there was no way she could possibly work today. Whoever needed soap, shampoo, perfume or combs would have to return tomorrow.

"Robe or not? Difficult. On one hand, robe would be appropriate. On other hand, robe looks stupid. What you think?"

Otto, a thick bandage on his tail, blinked owlishly at his mistress.

"Yes, no robe, agreed. Bah."

Mauburz sighed. It was not easy for an Orc to dress to fashion in Imladris, especially not for a female one. For very special occasions, she would dress herself in a robe, but Mauburz always felt like a Gondorian black pudding in those damned things, and far preferred the comfortable casual clothes favoured by Glorfindel, Estorel or the twins. Robes were from Mordor, leggings and jerkins from Eru.

Finally, she slipped into something simple and suede.

"Is green, should be agreeable with King of Greenwood," she said to Otto. The warg yawned and put his big head on his paws, closing his eyes.

"Lucky warg. But Mauburz can't stay here and sleep like you, have to go and say thank you. But what is this noise?"

She stepped to the window, and looked outside. A group of Elflings and Dwarflings had gathered, cheering and laughing, surrounding a rather sourly looking Ophir and a very desperate Lord Celeborn.

Mauburz snickered.

"Hehe, funny! Nice Lord Celeborn and that very stupid Elf with eye glasses still try to get flying horse from sky! Otto, come and see!"

Otto snorted; certainly Mauburz couldn't expect him to move to watch two silly Elves and a stupid horse with wings?

"Bah," she muttered, and waved him off. "They never get horse back like that. Better go and help. What would Elves do without Orcs, pah!" She closed the last button on her jerkin, then headed down the stairs.

It was indeed a pitiful spectacle. Aratoamin, tired from circling over Imladris and chasing ducks, had made himself comfortable on the roof of the smithy and was plucking leaves from the oak tree close by. He ignored all Celeborn's attempts to lure him down from his lofty place, and neither yelling, screaming, whistling nor any promises of treats or threats of horrible punishments could make the horse so much as acknowledge the presence of Lórien's great lord.

"I hope we will not have to pay for the damage to the roof and the tree," Ophir said, making notes in his book. "So far, I have counted seven broken tiles. Do you have any information on the price of tiles in Imladris, by any chance?"

"I could not care less for tiles if I tried," Celeborn snapped, "but I certainly know where I will store them if you should not stop pestering me about them, Ophir!"

Ophir gasped, and took a step back.

"My lord! This is most outrageous!"

"Indeed it is! How do we get this blasted horse down from this roof? Aratoamin! Good horse! Fine horse! Now who is a fine horse? Come come come, now there is a good horse..."

"There goes another tile."

"And there goes pile," Mauburz said cheerfully, "big horse makes big mess. Good morning! Need help?"

Ophir's lips got even thinner than before, and he wrinkled his nose.

"I cannot see how we could possibly need the assistance of an Orc," he said icily.

Mauburz shrugged.

"Cannot see, aha, well, need new eye glasses then, yes? Lord Celeborn, you want Mauburz to try and get stupid horse from roof?"

Celeborn looked over his shoulder, then back at Aratoamin, who had just begun to preen his feathers.

"Mistress Mauburz, if you get that cursed beast off that roof, you may keep it."

"But my lord, think of the value of this animal, and-" Ophir protested.

"You. Silence," Celeborn cut him off. "Write him off. Fiddle the books. Be creative. Just stop nagging."

"Maybe a deduct for depreciation..."

Mauburz walked towards the smithy and looked up at Aratoamin, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, a very loud, high-pitched sound. The horse immediately stopped grooming his feathers and perked up his ears. She whistled again, then reached into the pocket of her jerkin and took some lumps of sugar out.

Ophir shook his head.

"Sugar? Now, really."

"Is horse. Every horse likes sugar. Wings or not," Mauburz stated. "Horse! Heh, you! Here, Mauburz has sugar! You come and get it, or Mauburz will give it to Lord Celeborn, and then Lady Galadriel will be angry because sugar is not good for him. You want that? No. So, be a good horse and come here."

A considerable crowd had gathered in the market square by now, the spectacle of Lord Celeborn's formidable flying horse a welcome cheering up after yesterday's unpleasant events. Celeborn could have done without the spectators, but Mauburz enjoyed every second.

"Horse, you come here, now," she ordered firmly, holding up the sugar lumps. Aratoamin neighed, whipped his tail, and then spread his wings. He left the roof and circled twice over the market square, then landed in front of Mauburz. For a few minutes, he eyed her suspiciously, but then the temptation of the sugar lumps became too great, and he gently took them from her hand, one by one. Mauburz slowly approached him and took hold of his bridle, then patted his neck.

"Nice horse, good horse! See, much better down here with Mauburz and sugar than on roof without."

Aratoamin seemed to agree, for he neighed again.

Celeborn scratched his head, then he had to smile.

"The beginning of a wonderful friendship, it seems. Very well then, I will keep my word. Mistress Mauburz, this horrible beast is yours. Just promise me that you will not partake in any races, will you?"

Mauburz bowed.

"Very generous of you, thank you my lord! No, no more racing, never again! Promise! And Mauburz will take good care of strange horse!"

She gave Aratoamin a kiss on his nose.

"And you get new name. Aratoamin - nobody can memorise! I call you Edgar: Edgar good for you?"

The horse nodded happily. Finally a name he could spell!

* * *

Tauriel arrived, a large cushion under her right arm.

"This is the last one I could find. Are you really certain you do not wish me to call a healer, my king?"

Thranduil grasped the cushion and pushed it behind his back, wincing in the process.

"I wish to be left alone. Have I not ordered you to return to your quarters and get some rest, Tauriel?"

"I do not require rest."

Thranduil muttered something unintelligible. As Tauriel showed no sign of leaving, he returned his attention to the book he had ordered from Lord Elrond's library and tried to find a resting position which didn't cause him too much pain. Yesterday he hadn't felt so bad; but now, every single bone in his body seemed to hurt. A look into the mirror had presented him with the image of a very sickly looking Elf with pale skin and dark circles under his eyes, plus a bruise on the cheek which began to turn blue. Not a pretty sight, and so Thranduil was in a very foul mood; a knock on the door indicating a visitor did not improve it.

"Tell them that I am not here," he grumbled, without looking up.

"Heard that, so you can open door now," a cheerful voice yelled from outside, and Thranduil shuddered.

"Good grief. It is Elrond's Orc."

"Do you wish me to send her away, my king?"

Thranduil clapped the book shut and sighed.

"No, it is fine. The way I look, it is probably best only to welcome visitors who do not have an overly developed sense of aestheticism."

Tauriel opened the door, and in came Mauburz, carrying a small white pouch and a scroll, bowing politely.

"Good morning, nice to see you. How is shoulder?"

"Better," Tauriel lied, for her shoulder hurt very much.

"Really?" Mauburz shook her head. "Strange, that. Should hurt very much. Lórindol once bit Mauburz when was very small Elfling, and Mauburz still has scar on leg. Here, make poultice with these herbs, twice a day, will help with healing. Better start now, for Mauburz has to talk to King of Greenwood under four ears."

"I - what?" Tauriel took the pouch and looked at Thranduil. The king arched an eyebrow, then he nodded.

"Mistress Mauburz seems to share my concern for your welfare, my dear Tauriel. So I think it is best if you follow her advice."

"As you wish, my king," Tauriel replied and bowed, but she closed the door behind her with far more force than needed, expressing her disagreement with Thranduil's order.

Mauburz waited for a moment, listened carefully to be certain that Tauriel had really left, then crossed the room and sat down in the seat next to Thranduil's couch.

"I take it you are not one for protocol, Mistress Mauburz?" Thranduil asked, now amused by the Orc's antics. "What an elegant way of getting rid of my guard."

Mauburz smiled.

"Oh, really was worried about Tauriel. Is very nice Elf, but cares too much about you and not enough about herself. And is true, Mauburz still has scar from bite. But must speak about personal things with you, King of Greenwood, and personal things are personal, no?"

"That is true."

Mauburz looked at the book on Thranduil's lap.

"Reading 'History of Mordorian Plains Elves', very interesting. Was written not long ago by Master Melpomaen. You interested in Plains Elves?"

Thranduil shrugged his shoulders.

"As interesting a subject as any other, and as I cannot do much else at the moment, furthering my knowledge of the people of Middle-earth is certainly not the worst pastime."

"Ah yes, Plains Elves." Mauburz leaned back in her seat, placed the scroll on a small table next to her and folded her hands on her chest. "Very interesting. Very old people, you see. A bit like the people of Mirkwood, don't you agree?"

Thranduil narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well - very old people, on Arda since almost beginning of time. Like the Teleri - unwilling to leave their home, and yet forced to leave. A people with long memory. Never forget good things, never forget bad things. And like your people, they decorate skin. So yes, much in common."

Thranduil put the book aside.

"I think you have not come here to discuss with me the history of the Plains Elves, though?"

Mauburz laughed.

"No, no! Mauburz not an expert. You must ask Lórindol, he knows everything. Very keen student, also speaks their language. No, Mauburz is here to say thank you to the King of Greenwood for saving her life."

"You are most welcome, Mistress Mauburz."

"You see, Mauburz was thinking last night. Lord Elrond, he would have saved Mauburz, because Lord Elrond is the best of all Elven lords, and also because he is a friend of Mauburz, and because Mauburz saved his sons when they were Elflings. And Lord Celeborn, he would have saved Mauburz, too, because is honourable lord. But why would King of Greenwood risk his life and save Orc? We're not friends. Orcs are your enemies. You have no reason. So, Mauburz was thinking, and realised that Thranduil is Elf who does not judge by appearance or birth. You only judge people for who they are."

"So?"

"So Mauburz suddenly knew what was happening, and why bridge blowing up and barrels falling down and everything else. And Mauburz thinks it is time you tell everybody, before wrong people find out and something really bad happens."

"I thank you for your concern, but I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, Mistress Mauburz," he said icily. "Should you refer to the big revelation young master Lórindol has promised for this afternoon, I must say that I fear it will end in a big disaster. He seems to suffer from an overactive imagination."

Mauburz shook her head.

"King of Greenwood, you know very well what Mauburz is talking about. But good, your problem, not Mauburz'. But be warned, if Master Erestor's children come to harm because you play games, you will be one very sorry king. Anyway. As I said, have come to say thank you for saving life."

She handed Thranduil the scroll, which he took hesitantly, and finally unrolled. It was a map.

"I do not understand..."

"King of Greenwood is very fond of jewels, Mauburz learned. Has lost very precious jewel. This is map where jewel is hidden. Good luck finding it, but please, don't tell anybody where you got map from, or Mauburz will be dead Orc. Promised?"

Thranduil looked at the map, then at Mauburz, then at the map again. He considered the whole matter, then carefully rolled the scroll up and hid it under the cushion.

"You have my word, Mistress Mauburz. My lips are sealed."

"Thank you. Must leave now. Have horse to feed. Goodbye, King of Greenwood!"

With that, she hurried out of the room, skipping cheerfully and slamming the door closed.

Thranduil stared after her for a long while, then he picked up the book again.

"So Lórindol is a very keen student and speaks the language? That sneaky little rascal," he said to himself. He knew he should be angry, but as he began to read chapter four, 'Social and Territorial Behaviour', he chuckled.

* * *

Lórindol, standing with an air of great importance in front of the desk in Lord Elrond's study, was obviously enjoying everybody's attention greatly.

"Stop prancing," Estorel hissed, "this is ridiculous. You are making a fool of yourself, of our parents, and of me!"

His brother gave him a smug smile.

"On the contrary. Just you wait and see."

Erestor and Glorfindel exchanged worried looks. Erestor knew that this could only go wrong, but he also was fully aware that there was no way of holding Lórindol back, short of locking him up somewhere, and that was out of the question. He had no idea what great revelation his son was about to make, but he feared it would be highly inappropriate, embarrassing or, as Glorfindel had predicted, immensely stupid.

Every seat was taken, with Elrond, Legolas, Tauriel, Celeborn and Ophir sitting close by the fire and Thranduil resting on a sofa which had been brought in specially. Erestor, Glorfindel and Estorel sat on the other side and, close to the door, stood Mauburz, engaged in an animated conversation with Dûlla, the female Dwarf.

Lórindol cleared his throat.

"Dear friends and family, esteemed guests," he began, waving his hand in a pompous gesture, making Glorfindel wince and Estorel roll his eyes. "We have gathered here today to find out who is responsible for the attacks on the life of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood the Great. I am happy to announce that I have identified the guilty party, and ruined their hopes of making an escape by hiding in plain view."

He made a dramatic pause, and really, he had a captivated audience. Mauburz, however, shook her head in disapproval. Well, she would change her mind soon, Lórindol thought.

"But let us start with the evidence first. Before yesterday, King Thranduil's life was already under attack three times. I will recollect them for you: first, the king was almost crushed by barrels in the royal wine cellar, as somebody had loosened the wedges holding them in place. Luckily, he was saved by Legolas.

"Then, during a feast on the occasion of Legolas' begetting day, the king was poisoned. It was only with great luck that he survived. Then Thranduil was almost killed by boulders, crashing down a hill. Again, he was saved by Legolas. These are the facts."

There was surprised murmuring and muffled discussion; the attacks on Thranduil had not been known so far in Imladris. Lórindol, enjoying the impact of his words, let everybody talk for a while, then raised his hand.

"Now we come to the important question: who would profit from Thranduil's death? The answer seems to be clear: Legolas, for he would become the King of Mirkwood in the event of his father's death."

Legolas shook his head, and Estorel's face drained of all colour.

"How dare you-" he began, but Lórindol cut him off.

"No need to get upset yet, dear brother. Legolas would profit from Thranduil's death, that is true, but none of the attacks on the king were _successful_. But they created an atmosphere of fear, instigating in Thranduil the idea that he needed to increase his security. What a great chance for a young, ambitious warrior who wanted to rise in the ranks of Thranduil's guards! So my suspicions focussed on Tauriel, who became head of Thranduil's guards as a consequence."

"What? Are you insane? I would never hurt my king!" Tauriel protested.

"No, of course not, that is why all the attacks were planned in a manner that would give Legolas the chance to step in before anything serious could happen. This brings us to events here in Imladris. Tauriel was supposed to participate in the race; it was Thranduil who decided she should not at the last minute. Why would she blow herself up? Which meant my original theory was wrong, and my investigations returned to Legolas. And that is where his horse comes in."

"I just knew it, my horse is the assassin," Legolas said, amused rather than upset.

"At first I thought Legolas had planned to stay behind and be thrown off his horse, but I was wrong," Lórindol continued. "I think his horse sensed that there was danger ahead, and that was why he shied and threw his rider off. This ruled out that Legolas had placed the explosive. And that is when I realised we have been wrong all along. Because, dear friends, we all thought somebody had tried to murder Thranduil, when in truth, somebody had tried to murder either Tauriel or Legolas."

It was so silent in the room; one could have heard a pin drop. Lórindol enjoyed the effect of his revelation, but the slightly panicked look Thranduil and Legolas exchanged escaped his attention.

"Yes," he finally continued, "that was the only possible solution. To find the real target, I had to question the motive, and the two most common ones are wealth and passion. Wealth - we can rule this out, for neither Legolas nor Tauriel own riches. Passion, however... Legolas is married to the daughter of Erduil, the head of the clan of Northern Mirkwood. Not everybody was delighted by this fact, least of all Erduil himself, for he has always been an opponent of Thranduil. Erduil is convinced that the hills in Northern Mirkwood contain Mithril, and has invited Dwarves for test diggings. You have certainly heard about this; it is an amusing anecdote told up and down Middle-earth."

"Oh for crying out loud," Legolas began, but Thranduil ordered him to let Lórindol finish.

"So, what do we have now?" Lórindol began to count his "facts and findings" off on his fingers. "Tauriel was present during all the attacks, so I think _she_ was the target, not Thranduil. Tauriel is a beautiful, ambitious Elf who, as the head of Thranduil's guard, is close to the king, and with that, close to Legolas. And I have heard from various Elves that, before Legolas met his wife, he and Tauriel were very close. Some say she is still in love with him. So, we have a family with access to Dwarvish explosives, a beautiful redhead and a disapproving father-in-law. I fear that, if we look at all these facts, we can only come to one conclusion: Legolas, your father-in-law has hired somebody to get rid of you, Tauriel and your ada here in Imladris."

Nobody said a word. Erestor pinched the bridge of his nose; Glorfindel wished the ground would open and swallow him up.

"You stupid child," Tauriel finally said, her face white as a sheet. "What do you know about love?"

Mauburz walked towards Lórindol, shaking her head.

"You have such good eyes, why can't you see?"

Lórindol was confused. Somehow, his glorious revelation wasn't going the way he had planned.

"See what?"

She pointed at Tauriel.

"You said she is beautiful redhead. _That_ is reason, stupid Elfling! Mithril, stupid father-in-law, what nonsense! _Redhead_! She is _redhead_! She is _ambarussa_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's what can happen if you introduce a "sassy redhead" into a movie! ;-)


	10. Day 6, Afternoon: Ambarussa and Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya.

All eyes were on Mauburz, and it was so silent, one could have heard a pin drop. Thranduil shifted uncomfortably on his sofa, and Legolas sighed.

"I told you it was not a very wise idea, ada."

Elrond stood up, his face white as a sheet, his hands trembling.

" _Ambarussa_? By the Valar, I do hope that this term does not carry the connection I fear it does - Thranduil, explain yourself, immediately!"

Thranduil still hesitated, but looking at the petrified Tauriel, he finally nodded.

"I will. But be aware that I will not hesitate to declare war on anybody who should spread this beyond these four walls. The matter is far too dangerous and grave."

"I fear I have to inform the lady Galadriel, and-" Ophir began, but Celeborn cut him off. "No worries about him, Thranduil," he said, pointing at Ophir. "I shall strangle him with my own hands, should he even consider gossiping. Now please continue."

Ophir gave his lord an angry sidewise glance, but kept quiet and pushed his eye-glasses up his nose.

Thranduil nodded.

"Over six centuries ago, I was called to see an Elf lady living on the northern border of Mirkwood. She had been mortally wounded in an Orc ambush, and though one of my patrols came to her help, the healer could not save her life. She had a daughter, about ten years of age, and during these last moments of her life, she confided to me under pledge of secrecy that the father of the child had been Amrod, one of the Ambarussa."

" _What_?"

"That is not possible!"

"A bad joke!"

Thranduil waited for the protests to die down.

"My reaction was the same as yours. But she gave me a ring, with an inscription in Quenya, identifying it as belonging to the Fated One. And the child had red hair, which has only ever been seen in the bloodline of the House of Fëanor, through his wife, Nerdanel."

Now all eyes were on Tauriel.

"Was this my mother? Was it _me_ she was talking about?" she asked, oddly calm despite this enormous revelation.

"Yes, that was you, my child."

Glorfindel shook his head.

"What utter nonsense. This cannot be true. Amrod died during the Burning of the Ships. Fëanor's twins died in the First Age! How could Amrod possibly have fathered Tauriel, who is only six hundred years old?"

"But what if it is true? What if he survived?" Thranduil pointed at Glorfindel. "Or what if he was returned from the Halls of Waiting? You died in the 510th year of the First Age, yet here you are, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Gil-galad returned, and my own brother Amaris - so why not Amrod? The Halls of Waiting seem to have revolving doors lately."

"My apologies for interrupting, this is all nice and if one cares for history certainly interesting, but I would rather know what these old stories have to do with the attacks on Thranduil," Lórindol asked. "With all due respect, my king."

"At least one person with an eye for the essentials," Dûlla grumbled, "Elfish family dramas are far too complicated for me. Please, go ahead with the story, King Thranduil."

Thranduil exchanged a look with Legolas.

"I had to make a decision. Of course I knew what an enormous scandal it would be if it came out that there really was a member of the House of Fëanor living among us. Many still feel bitter, and some might wish to take revenge, even though Tauriel had no involvement with the deeds of her ancestors. But I could not turn a child away. I discussed the matter with Legolas, and we decided to keep Tauriel in Mirkwood and not tell anybody."

"No, _you_ decided this would be a great idea, ada. For the record, I said it this was madness, could never work and would end in disaster," Legolas interrupted.

"Fine, _I_ decided to keep her in Mirkwood. Who would know, after all? Yes, there was always the risk that somebody might question the colour of her hair, but that could be shrugged off as a caprice of nature, for really, who would have believed the truth? But in all this time, nobody ever noticed the obvious."

"Nor did I," Lórindol said, and slapped his forehead. "I cannot believe this. How could I be so stupid?"

"But then somebody _did_ notice?" Glorfindel asked.

Thranduil nodded.

"I received a message from the Lady Galadriel; she had had a vision that one of my people was in danger. She did not know the why and how, but I knew immediately what it was all about. I decided to make Tauriel head of my guards, so that Legolas and I could always keep an eye on her. We did not think that anybody would dare to attack her while we were close by. Obviously, we were wrong."

Tauriel had listened to Thranduil's words with increasing disbelief, frustration and anger.

"So I was not promoted to guard you, but so you could guard _me_? It was all a lie?"

"I did not lie when I said you were one of our most capable warriors, Tauriel," Thranduil said in great earnest. "But you must understand that I had no other choice."

"How about telling me the truth? How about giving _me_ a choice? Maybe I would not have wanted to stay in Mirkwood?"

"Tauriel, this is not a discussion we should have now," Thranduil tried to placate her.

"Indeed it is not! I cannot believe you had the bleeding gall to bring a spawn of Fëanor's house to Imladris!"

All heads turned to Erestor, who so far hadn't said a word. Now he stood there, pale and angry - angry as nobody had ever seen him before. Of course - Erestor and Elrond were the two Elves in Imladris who had suffered most from the consequences of the infamous actions of Fëanor and his sons.

Glorfindel put a hand on Erestor's arm. "Please calm down, beloved," he said, but Erestor shook him off with such violence that Glorfindel almost fell over his chair.

"My son risked his life for her? For _her_? Are you insane?"

Erestor lunged across the room at Thranduil so quickly that nobody could hold him. He growled and his fingers dug into the sofa, missing Thranduil's healthy leg by only an inch, ripping open the upholstery. Estorel rushed in, grabbed his parent and pulled him away, otherwise Erestor would very likely have seriously hurt the King of Mirkwood.

Lórindol came to Estorel's aid, both young Elves talking to Erestor in a language none of those present understood, but it was obvious that they tried to talk their sia out of ripping Thranduil's head off. Finally, with a last growl, Erestor stormed out of Elrond's study, uttering words which could only be curses of the worst kind in the language of the Plains Elves.

Thranduil gasped for air.

"By the Forest Spirits, what was _that_?"

"Master Erestor, the most boring Elf in Imladris," Legolas said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Glorfindel hurried out of the study, hoping to find Erestor, and Estorel followed him.

Elrond tried to bring some order to the chaos - in his study and in his heart.

"Thranduil, you have brought danger to Imladris. I have to protect my people. So, while I appreciate your good intentions, she must leave. Tauriel cannot stay in Imladris. As for myself-"

"She already left, my lord," Dûlla said. "And who could blame her! This is worse than my sixtieth birthday party! Has none of you considered what this all means for the poor lass? You have the sensitivity of Balrogs! Come, my dear boy, we'll go looking for the girl, and while we do so, I'll tell you about Kíli and why you've been an oaf. And you better prepare the best apology of your life!"

Leaving the upset Elves behind, Dûlla took Lórindol by the hand and dragged him out of the study.

* * *

Tauriel hadn't bothered to fetch her spare clothes or any provisions. She only had one thought in mind - flight; leaving this place, as fast as possible, and putting as much distance between herself and Imladris as she could. Her horse was looking at her in surprise; Tauriel was usually never in such a state of confusion, dropping the bridle three times with shaky hands.

"You should not leave. Things will sort themselves out, they always do."

She spun around, and when she saw Lórindol peeking through the open stable door, she was sorely tempted to throw the bridle or at least a brush at him.

"You! Out! You are the last person I wish to talk to!"

"I cannot blame you."

Lórindol slipped into the stable and sat down on a hay bale next to the door.

"Then leave!" She tried again to bridle her horse, but her hands were still shaking too much.

"Not before I have said what I have to say."

"Then make haste," she snapped. "And anyway, how did you find me?"

"I thought you would want to leave. And then I followed your scent."

"My _scent_?" She shuddered. "Do you have any idea how disturbing that sounds?"

He shrugged. "It is what it is."

For a while, they were silent, then Lórindol cleared his throat.

"I wish to apologise."

"You had better apologise to my king, and to Legolas, for it is their family that you so grossly insulted. A murderous father-in-law - unbelievable!"

She shook her head, but Lórindol looked at her in surprise.

"That? Oh, no, I will not apologise for _that_. I will not change my mind just because your ada was one of the Ambarussa and because sia went all Plains Elf on Thranduil. Whoever blew up the bridge over the Bruinen, wanted to destroy the House of Thranduil, of that I am absolutely certain. But that is neither here nor there, and at the end of the day, I do not care for the drama in Mirkwood. No, I wish to apologise for my thoughtless words about you and Legolas. I did not know about Kíli. My words must have been very hurtful, and for that, I apologise."

Tauriel quickly turned her face towards her horse, busying herself with the saddle cloth.

"Compared to the rest, that certainly is of no importance," she murmured.

"It is, to me. Tell me about him."

She laughed without mirth.

"Oh yes, of course. As if that was of any interest. Nobody wants to hear about him. Nobody wants to hear about the Dwarf. He is not spoken about. He is not mentioned. He was stupid Tauriel's embarrassing mistake."

Lórindol snorted.

"Please! All these years, and you still cling on to his memory? He must have been very dear to you then, and therefore special. So yes, I want to hear all about him. I like Dwarves, you see. You loved a Dwarf? That is not stupid, it speaks for good taste. So, what was he like? Did he have a long beard?"

Tauriel looked over her shoulder. Was Lórindol mocking her? But no, the young Elf looked at her with genuine interest. She hesitated a moment, then finally let go of the saddle cloth and sat down next to Lórindol on the hay bale.

"No, he was still young, so not much of a beard yet. But he was quite tall for a Dwarf. And he was handsome."

"Goes without saying; I did not expect you to fancy a cave troll."

"Oh, you," she said, and elbowed him in the side. Lórindol grinned.

"He had a twinkle in his eyes. I liked that. Your uncle Nonfindel often said that we Elves were made to be silly, and that we were far too serious in Mirkwood. Kíli made me laugh. And he was smart. To think that he and his friends outwitted our king!"

"I would have loved to see Thranduil's face," Lórindol snickered, "the story of how they all escaped in the barrels is one of uncle Nonfindel's favourite tales!"

"Hah! No doubt! And Kíli was brave, oh so brave. You should have seen him fighting, Lórindol. He took out so many enemies before-"

She broke off. Lórindol took her hand and gently squeezed it.

"It is fine, you need not tell further."

"No, I do want to tell you. When do I ever get the chance to tell his story at all? The Dwarves were kind, they let me bury him. My king was not so kind, he banished me from Mirkwood."

Lórindol pulled a face.

"Banished you? After all what he told us today?"

She shrugged.

"Well, for about half an hour, until Nonfindel learned about it. A moment of weakness, he could not help himself."

"I had no idea uncle Nonfindel fought at the Battle of Five Armies."

"He was _there_. Whether he _fought_ , that is debatable."

They both chuckled. Then Lórindol became serious again.

"What will you do now, Tauriel?"

She sighed.

"I have absolutely no idea. I am not who I thought I was, all the truths I knew have turned out to be lies. But where can I go? Who would want me? By the Forest Spirits - the House of Fëanor! Could it possibly be worse?"

"Maybe you should see yourself as Nerdanel's kin. Has a better ring to it. Also, red hair is pretty. Would you rather have some Plains Elf heritage?"

Tauriel gave him a sidewise glance and leaned back against the wall of the stable.

"What is it like?"

Lórindol shrugged.

"Different for each of us. For my brother it was harder; he was the firstborn, so he got all the attention. He also looks a little wild. But he just longs to be a normal, nice, average Elf."

"But you do not?"

"Me?" Lórindol laughed. "Who wants to be normal, nice and average? Stay here, Tauriel. Please."

"Lord Elrond ordered me to leave. And I fear that this time, your uncle will not come to my rescue."

Lórindol smiled.

"Do not worry. I rather suspect that somebody will take care of that problem."

* * *

"I really do not think it would be a good idea to interfere, ada," Legolas said. He and Thranduil, who was leaning heavily on a table, stood outside the library, together with Estorel, and listened to one of the ugliest arguments they had ever heard.

Erestor was on a rampage. If the noise coming from the library was anything to go by, he was not only screaming in at least three languages, but also smashing furniture and bottles, very likely Elrond's miruvor. Estorel stared fearfully at the large door, uncertain of what to do or say.

"I am responsible for this," Thranduil said. "I did not consider that Erestor lost his whole family due to Fëanor. I should have known how he would react. Especially considering that his sons were at risk."

"It was _my_ decision to rescue Legolas," Estorel said, "just as it was Lórindol's to save Tauriel. And he would have done it even if he had known who she was. Her heritage means nothing to him. It means nothing to me."

Erestor was yelling again, this time in the language of the Plains Elves, and it must have been particularly ugly, for Estorel paled.

"That is going too far now," he said.

"No, stay here, young one," Legolas said, and tried to hold him back, but Estorel shrugged him off and entered the library, ignoring any further protests.

Inside, an exhausted Glorfindel tried to placate Erestor; an Erestor who had nothing in common with the calm, reserved and controlled chief advisor of Lord Elrond, but rather looked like Rabbit preparing for war. His black hair hung over his face, he hissed and growled, and he was so wild with rage that his usually kind brown eyes were almost black.

Estorel had understood what Erestor's last words had meant - _Lórindol should have let her drown_. When Erestor noticed him, he interrupted his rant for a moment.

"Estorel, please go," Glorfindel said, "this is none of your concern."

Estorel didn't reply; he walked directly to Erestor, and looked him straight in the eyes.

" _Glorfindel should drown the cub_ ," he said. "Remember that, sia?"

Erestor stared at his son, then shook his head, as if he had misheard the words.

"What?"

" _Glorfindel should drown the cub_. You must remember sia. I certainly do."

Glorfindel looked from his son to his husband.

"What are you talking about, Estorel?"

"Do not dare," Erestor snapped. "This has nothing to do with the matter at hand!"

"It has everything to do with it." Estorel addressed his father. "My birth was not welcomed by everybody ada, as you certainly know. What sia never told you, however, is that some thought my existence would pose a danger to Imladris, and so they voiced their opinion that it would have been better if you had drowned the 'cub' - me - at birth."

Glorfindel stared at his son and Erestor in disbelief.

"What?" he croaked. "Who? Why did you not tell me? I will give them free swimming lessons!"

Estorel sighed.

"Yes, of course, which is probably the reason why sia kept this to himself, ada."

"How can you know? You were still a wee Elfling..." Erestor said in a low voice.

"I caught my first crayfish when I was three. You should not be surprised I made my first enemy when I was one. But sia, you of all people should see how wrong this is. They hated me because of my parentage, and you hate Tauriel because of hers, yet neither she nor I are responsible for it."

Erestor sat down in a chair, exhausted from his anger.

"Estorel, how can you compare these two things? Good grief, child - _Fëanor_! The Oath! The Kinslayings! _My_ kin! Does this have no meaning to you?"

"Sia, I will be one hundred years old this winter. Lórindol is eighty. And even to Tauriel, who is six hundred years old, the happenings of thousands of years ago do not matter in the same way as they do to you - if at all. They are just tales, sia. I am very sorry that you suffered so much, and that you have seen such terrible things. But these are your ghosts, not mine."

"I forbid you to talk to your sia like that," Glorfindel said sternly.

"You cannot forbid me to speak my mind, ada. Sia, I always looked up to you. You are Erestor, the wise, you always gave the best counsel, you were always fair, never took sides, but how can I look up to you if you are ranting like a Gondorian fishmonger? I am very sorry, but personally, I prefer Tauriel being the granddaughter of Fëanor over her being the secret lover of Legolas anytime. I suppose this is the curse of immortality, that we have to carry our grievances through the millennia, but sia, if, after all these years, you still feel such anger, maybe you and ada should leave this place and sail west. Maybe Valinor can heal your wounds."

Glorfindel and Erestor stared at Estorel in complete bafflement. Never had they expected to hear such words from their usually so taciturn and withdrawn son. And it seemed Estorel was startled as well by his own boldness. He took a step back, then put his hands over his mouth.

"Oh, I am so sorry," he whispered, and before any of his parents could say another word, he bolted out of the door, past Thranduil and Legolas, who had been eavesdropping with great interest.

"Remind me never to complain about your insolences again," Thranduil said to his son. "Did he really compare him to a Gondorian fishmonger?"

* * *

Elrond stood on his balcony, overlooking the valley of Imladris. It was a beautiful day, and only the noise of the sawing and hammering of the craftsmen in the distance, working on repairing the bridge, reminded him of the unpleasant events that had disturbed the peace of his realm. That disturbance was nothing compared to the turmoil in his heart, though.

Unlike Glorfindel, who had been returned from the Halls of Waiting and given the chance of a second life without old grudges and grievances, Elrond could not escape the memory of the horrors of war, the darkness, how he and his twin brother Elros had been captured by Maedhros and Maglor, the sons of Fëanor. Not all memories were bad, though. Sometimes, he still thought he could hear Maglor singing or remembered him brooding, quill in mouth, over a particularly difficult line of poetry. Had it not been for him, neither Elrond nor his brother would have survived. And yet...

"Ah, Celebrían, what would your advice be if you were here?"

Elrond felt lonely. Lately, he missed his wife more and more, and had seriously considered sailing west. Of course he knew why Ophir was in Imladris; the question of who would become the new master of the Last Homely House weighed heavily on his mind, and how could he leave Imladris without this matter settled? Elladan had made it clear that he and Orophin wished to settle in Lothlórien. And Elrohir - well. With a bit of guidance from Glorfindel and Erestor, he would certainly make a good lord of Imladris, but beyond the borders of this realm, the strange case of Elvoron and Ellón's parentage had been cause for much speculation and gossip. And as unpleasant and prejudiced as Ophir's opinion on the twins was, it was not an unusual stance among the people of Middle-earth.

He sat down and poured a glass of wine. That had been an unforgettable Yule, fifty years ago. They all had been sitting by the fire, laughing and chatting, when all of a sudden Elrohir had turned up, carrying a large basket, and announcing that he needed milk. How they all had stared into the basket, with the two tiny Elflings, and listened to Elrohir's explanation that the twins were his sons. And that had been about all Elrond had ever learned about his grandsons; he had respected Elrohir's wish and not made any inquiries about the mother of the twins, but by now, Elrond found it very difficult not to ask questions, especially considering the events of the last days. How had Ellón and Thranduil managed to survive the tumble down the waterfall? It was simply not possible; and Ellón did not even have a scratch or a bruise! Certainly, magic had been involved, and Elrond wasn't sure he was ready to explore that particular kettle of fish.

"Grand-ada? Did you not hear us knocking?"

Elrond jumped up. As if they had read his thoughts, Ellón and Elvoron had entered his chamber; they had been absent since the day of the race, untraceable for anybody but, so he assumed, the sons of Erestor.

"My apologies, I was lost in thought. Where have you been? We have been looking for you. Thranduil much desired to talk to you."

Ellón bowed his head.

"We did not wish to insult your guests, grand-ada. But we had important business to attend to."

Elrond arched an eyebrow.

"Am I correct in my assumption that you will not share said business with me?"

"Yes," replied Elvoron.

"No," said Ellón.

Elrond sighed.

"Conversations with you two are becoming increasingly difficult. But never mind. You wish to speak to me?"

Elvoron took a deep breath.

"Grand-ada, we have come to tell you that we will leave with Thranduil and his people for Mirkwood."

Elrond blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We will leave for Mirkwood," Elvoron repeated. "We will leave Imladris, grand-ada. It was not an easy decision to make, and we will leave with a heavy heart, but we hope you will come to understand us."

Elrond looked from one twin to the other, then he threw his arms in the air.

"Have you lost your minds? You will certainly not do any such thing!"

Ellón sighed.

"Grand-ada, please do not get upset, it only makes things more difficult. There is evil in Mirkwood, and it threatens not only Tauriel, but also the House of Thranduil. My brother and I will be their guardians."

"Oh yes, there is evil in Mirkwood, some of it on eight legs, some of it on two," Elrond cried. "And you are fifty years old, which means fifty years from your majority, and therefore not going anywhere but your rooms! You are grounded! Forever!"

Elvoron shook his head.

"Grand-ada, we really appreciate your discretion and that you never asked questions, but certainly you have noticed during the last decades that we are not like the other Elves of Imladris. We have been sent here for a specific purpose."

Elrond suddenly felt very weak, and he sank down on the closest seat. It was true, the twins were no Elflings; they had been fully grown since their thirtieth begetting day, and he also knew that there was no way for him to hold them back if they had set their minds on leaving.

"And what is this purpose, penneth?"

Elvoron bit his lip, and in that moment, he did indeed look like an Elfling. Elrohir used to have the same expression on his face when caught daydreaming by Master Erestor during a lesson and unable to answer a question. _He does not know_ , Elrond realised. _By the Valar, he has no idea!_

A whiff of nutmeg filled the air, and Ellón came to stand between Elrond and his brother.

"Atonement," he said. "Atonement, grand-ada."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read "Finding Námo" (or if you read it ten years ago and can't remember - who could blame you!): Fëanor's soul was reborn in Ellón - very, very reluctantly, that's why he's blind. Námo wanted to give him a chance to right at least some of the wrongs he was responsible for in the past. Ellón, however, doesn't know this.
> 
> If you have come to read this story through the movies and never read Tolkien's books: I know this can be a bit confusing without the backstory. I have always tried, and will continue to try, to write my stories so they will be understandable and (hopefully) enjoyable for everybody. So please, if there is something that doesn't make sense to you, just ask. :-)


	11. Day 7: Dwarves and Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every year, Elrond, Celeborn and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. And this year, it's a battle of elks and egos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

The end of A.C.O.T.E.R. was traditionally marked by a feast in the great hall of the Last Homely House with music, dancing and merriment, but considering the exceptional events of the last days, the festivities had been called off. The guests prepared for an early departure; all but Thranduil and Legolas, who were not fit to travel yet. The delegation from Mirkwood would have to enjoy the hospitality of Imladris for at least another fortnight.

"This stew tastes funny," Legolas said, and pushed his plate aside. "Is it possible somebody has poisoned our food again?"

"Considering Elrond's face when he informed me that his grandsons will come to live with us in Mirkwood, I would not be surprised. Do you think he stores Orc blood in the House of Healing?"

Legolas chuckled and leaned back in his seat.

"I do not know, but maybe Mauburz made a donation."

They had decided that it would be better to have their lunch in the privacy of Thranduil's chamber, away from angry glares and possibly worse. Erestor's outburst had left Thranduil shaken, even if he would never have admitted it. If an Elf with a mere one eighth Plains Elf heritage was capable of such violence, what could be expected of Elrohir's twins, who were half Plains Elf, if Thranduil's suspicions were correct?

"Tauriel, is anything amiss?"

Tauriel stopped separating the peas from the carrots on her plate and looked up.

"My king?"

"You are not talking, and you are not eating. So you must be pondering."

Tauriel sighed.

"I wonder if my decision was wise. Will I not put Mirkwood at risk if I return? Whoever is behind the attacks will not give up. Who knows what will happen next? Maybe - well, maybe it would be in everybody's best interest if I sailed west instead. In Valinor, I would be safe and with my kin."

Legolas tapped his fork on the table.

"Very considerate of you. But keep in mind that your 'kin' would be strangers. And who knows what Valinor is really like. For all we know, they hold weekly embroidery circles and breed pigeons."

"Legolas! Do not speak in such a disrespectful way," Thranduil said, though similar thoughts had crossed his own mind from time to time. Thanks to Gil-galad and Amaris, he knew that the Halls of Waiting at least offered a wide selection of spirits. Of Valinor, no such assurances were known.

Tauriel didn't reply. She had finished separating carrots and peas, and was now beginning to arrange the peas in a decorative pattern around the mashed potatoes.

Thranduil shook his head.

"Nobody is going anywhere yet. The sons of Elrohir have promised to protect Tauriel and our house, and I certainly welcome two more warriors to protect our people. I have watched them on the training grounds here at Imladris; despite their young age they fight like seasoned warriors. Ellón is very skilled in handling his sword; truly amazing, considering that he is blind. I would really like to know who-"

He broke off and reached for the wine. Legolas arched an eyebrow and looked at his father, but Thranduil shook his head; this was not the moment to discuss his theories about the parentage of Elrohir's sons.

There was a knock on the door.

"I suppose we cannot pretend that we are not in," Legolas said. "That is the curse of thin wooden doors."

"I know why I live in a cave," Thranduil said. "Please come in," he cried, for they were alone and had sent all servants away.

The door opened, and in came Celeborn. He was already dressed for travel, in the plain greys of the Galadhrim. For some reason, this made him look more intimidating than if he had worn splendid robes of velvet and silver. Celeborn the warrior always made Thranduil feel a little uncomfortable.

"Well met, my friends. Oh, I see you have wine, good," he said, pulling a chair to the table and pouring himself a glass. "Somebody must have nicked my stocks; my bets are on Lórindol. How Erestor and Glorfindel managed to raise him without losing their minds is beyond me."

Celeborn emptied his glass in one go.

"Ah. Bliss."

"Something tells me you did not come here to drink wine or discuss Lórindol's behaviour, Celeborn."

"No. I am here to discuss yours. And you must admit there is much to discuss."

"I think I should leave," Tauriel said, and began to stand up, but Celeborn ordered her with one gesture to stay, so she sat down again.

"I feel that enough talking about you has been done behind your back, Tauriel. I, for one, wish to talk about you while you are present. Now, as you can imagine, I am most indignant about this whole matter, Thranduil. How could you keep this from us? You have known for six hundred years that Amrod might be alive, and did not tell us? What in Eru's name were you thinking?"

Thranduil straightened up, trying not to wince at the pain this caused him.

"Do you think I have not taken all possible measures to find him, Celeborn? I have entrusted my chief counsellor with the search for Amrod, and you know what Lionel is like; he is the most dedicated and reliable Elf at my court. I trust him with my life, and in six hundred years, he has not found a single trace of Amrod in all of Middle-earth. Either the Ambarussa is dead and has passed on to the Halls of Waiting, or he has sailed west and now resides in Valinor. In either case he does not pose a danger to us any more, of that I am certain."

"Why do you think my father would have posed a danger?" Tauriel asked.

Thranduil looked at her in exasperation.

"Oh well, why ever... Son of Fëanor? Oath? Silmarils? Kinslayings?"

"But that was so long ago. "

Celeborn pinched the bridge of his nose.

"The young ones have absolutely no sense of history, Thranduil. But maybe that is a blessing. If you tell me that you are certain that Amrod is not in Middle-earth any more, then I am satisfied."

He refilled his glass.

"Tauriel, if you do not wish to return to Mirkwood, you are invited to travel with me to Lothlórien and will be welcome to stay there."

"What?" Thranduil would have jumped up if his injuries had permitted it. "That is absolutely out of question!"

"That is not your decision to make. Tauriel, know that there are options, and that you are welcome."

Legolas arched an eyebrow.

"Very generous. What about Galadriel? How would you explain this to her? That you won Tauriel in a game of dice or exchanged her for a flying horse"

"This was actually Galadriel's idea. She far-spoke to me last night, suggesting that I offer shelter to those who need it. She obviously does not know the whole story, though."

"Well, in that case she might as well have spoken about my father," Legolas snapped.

Celeborn sighed. "No reason to get upset, Legolas. But if you would look at the matter with a little more rationality and less emotion, you must admit that Lothlórien, the Heart of Elvendom, has a far larger army than Mirkwood, better equipped to protect Tauriel, and with the additional protection of the Lady Galadriel. The King of Mirkwood has many virtues, but magic is not one of them."

"You only say that because you have not seen my card tricks, Celeborn," Thranduil said smoothly. "Thank you for your concern, but we have protected Tauriel for six hundred years; we will manage for another six hundred."

"But you do need my great-grandsons," Celeborn said icily.

Thranduil banged his fist on the armrest.

"Ah, we are getting to the core of the matter! For your information, that was the twins' idea. Odd ideas must run in your family, my dear Celeborn; do not blame it on me! I will certainly not drag them along to Mirkwood against their will, but they seem to be determined to go there, so what do you want me to do? Tie them down here? They are of your blood; you order them to stay here, maybe they will listen."

Celeborn rolled the glass between his hands. He suddenly looked very tired and worn.

"They will not. I already tried. They feel they must leave, and I will not hold them back. But we all have lost so much already, Thranduil. Try to understand that it is not easy for us to let them go. No matter what they look like; to us, they are still Elflings."

"Celeborn, I promise that I will look after your Elflings as if they were my own," Thranduil said. "They cannot possibly be more difficult than Legolas, and at least they can swim."

Legolas rolled his eyes and decided not to comment on the matter. They all looked at Tauriel, who had not said anything to Celeborn's suggestion so far.

"Tauriel, if you wish to go to Lothlórien, you are free to leave," Thranduil said. "Their army is passable, and soon, Orophin, Haldir and Rabbit will settle there as well. One cannot be much safer than living in the neighbourhood of Rabbit, I suppose. Unless one is edible, that is. It is your decision."

Tauriel looked from Celeborn to Thranduil to Legolas, and remembered her two stays in Lothlórien. It was a place of wonder, full of light, music, poetry and beauty. She never had to climb a tree to see the sun or the stars, everything was open and bright and airy. And the Elves of Lothlórien - fairer, friendlier beings she had never met!

Mirkwood, on the other hand... spiders, poisonous plants, draughty caves, cold winters, lack of sunshine and lots of moody, often rude and not very considerate Elves. It really did not take her more than a moment to make her decision.

"My lord Celeborn, I cannot thank you and the lady Galadriel enough for this generous offer."

She gave him a sheepish smile.

"But really, I would rather stay in Mirkwood."

* * *

"You better hurry, or we'll leave without you, Dûlla," Dûl grunted, carrying a heavy chest. "And remember that you can't keep him, even if he followed you home!"

"Old grumbler. I will leave when I'm ready! Older brothers, nothing but trouble."

"Truer words were never spoken," Lórindol said. He knelt on the floor of the Celandine Tavern while Dûlla was combing his hair.

"So, what do you want?"

"I want Dwarf braids," Lórindol said. "Like yours."

Dûlla snickered.

"My dear boy, I doubt you want braids announcing to all and sundry that you are a married middle-aged Dwarf lady with five children. I'll make you a warrior's braid instead."

"But I am not a warrior yet. I am only eighty years old."

"Ah bah, what are twenty years compared to the life-span of an Elf? Nothing!"

Lórindol sighed.

"It is a very long time if you are grounded. Ouch! You are pulling my hair!"

"Well of course I'm pulling your hair, I'm braiding it! So you are grounded? What are you doing here then? I don't think your parents will like this, Lórindol."

He leaned against Dûlla's legs.

"Ada said I may not wander further from the Last Homely House than he can throw me. He slew a Balrog, so I think he could throw me as far as the market square, do you not agree? That aside, he would never set foot in the Celandine Tavern. The mere thought of celandines gives him nausea. He hates celandines almost as much as I hate fennel."

"Fennel is very nice and good for you. Marry a woman who knows how to cook fennel and spinach, and you will never see a day of illness."

Lórindol shuddered.

"I do not wish to marry, ever. Especially not somebody who cooks fennel and spinach!"

"Ah, that's what you say now, my dear boy. I bet that I'll see you dance with the prettiest ladies at Estorel's coming-of-age celebrations."

"You might even win that bet," Estorel said, arching an eyebrow, "though not for the reasons you assume. Knowing my dear brother, he will disappear ten minutes into the festivities and leave me with a gaggle of giggling females. It has happened before."

"Oh, you poor thing," Dûlla said with mock sympathy. "Should that be the case, I promise to come and rescue you."

"Thank you! I am so happy that ada invited you for the festivities; I cannot wait to hear more about your home and your business. One day you have to blow a mountain to rubble for me, Dûlla. Will you do that?"

She laughed, finishing the braid in Lórindol's golden hair.

"Yes, yes, I promise. Now wait a moment, something is missing."

She removed six bells from her whiskers, and fixed them to Lórindol's braid. He moved his head slightly from left to right, and the bells chimed; a gentle, silvery sound. He clapped his hands and gave Dûlla his brightest smile.

"I love this, thank you so much!"

"Your parents will like it as well; easier to find you, and much handier than a leash."

"They not need leash, they just follow path of destruction."

Lórindol looked up.

"Oh, Mauburz. How did you find me?"

"Just follow Dwarves. You terrible Elfling! Nice Lord Glorfindel looking everywhere for you, Lord Celeborn leaving! You not want to say farewell? Very bad manners! Should be grounded for next century!"

Lórindol crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

"He is several thousand years old, I am certain he will find the way home without my help."

"Now that does it," Dûlla said. She waved her finger angrily at Lórindol.

"Don't be so disrespectful, you little rascal! Off you go back to your parents, and no more talking back! Count yourself lucky that you're not one of my brood; I'd give you a good hiding. Or at least pretend I would. And now hurry!"

Lórindol wasn't used to such stern lectures and looked rather fazed. Glorfindel usually let him do what he wanted and Erestor hardly ever went further than meting out disapproving looks.

Mauburz grinned.

"You better do what Mistress Dûlla says. Is very angry Dwarf lady."

Lórindol sniffed.

"Fine. Good. I will leave. But only because I want to, not because you told me to."

He turned and flounced out of the tavern, leaving Mauburz and Dûlla behind. The two exchanged an exasperated look.

"A terrible age," Dûlla said, and Mauburz nodded in agreement. "The moment they start to grow a beard, they are nothing but trouble. And the boys are even worse."

* * *

As Celeborn had given his steed to Mauburz, Elrond had presented him with a horse for the journey back to Lothlórien. Considering that it was one of Imladris' best stallions and therefore very valuable, Ophir's mood had improved a little. He still looked like he had sucked on a lemon all morning, though. Ellón and Elvoron had come to wish their great-grand ada a safe journey home, Elrond was there as well, of course, and Glorfindel and Lórindol were present, too. Despite their injuries, Thranduil and Legolas had come to the market square.

Erestor, however, was nowhere in sight. It was unheard of for Erestor to neglect his duties in such a way, and this gave rise to much gossip among the Elves of Imladris. Was Erestor sick? Had something happened? The usual source of information, Lórindol, was not accessible, because Glorfindel watched his youngest son like a hawk, and Estorel was, as usual, nowhere in sight.

Celeborn hugged first Elvoron and then Ellón.

"And if there should be anything you need, no matter what, if there should be any danger, you must let me or nana Galadriel know, do you understand? There is no heroism in foolishness."

"We promise to be careful," Ellón said. "Please trust us. We know what we are doing."

"I hope so. Always remember, if something happens to you, I will come and rip Thranduil's head off."

Thranduil frowned, but refrained from commenting.

Elvoron grinned.

"Now do not look so serious. Who knows, maybe we could hold the next A.C.O.T.E.R. in Mirkwood? It could be fun! We could chase spiders, for example!"

Celeborn smiled. He mounted his horse, and bowed his head one last time to Elrond.

"As long as there is no more racing... but then Mistress Mauburz promised that there will not be. "

Mauburz nodded enthusiastically.

"No. No racing. No racing ever again. Mauburz promises. Will find something else to do. Archery, maybe. Hide-and-seek. Or pie-making contest."

Legolas laughed.

"Oh yes! I am all for it! The Great Mirkwood Bake-Off!"

Thranduil arched an eyebrow and gave his son a sidewise glance.

"You might be surprised, son."

* * *

There was a stream running through the forest on the eastern side of Imladris. It was crossed by a narrow bridge; very popular with the Elflings of Imladris. They would sit on the bridge one by one like chickens on a roost, chatting, giggling and watching the fish swim by. If the weather was very hot, they would dip their bare feet in the water and splash each other.

Today there were no Elflings, though, only Estorel. He was standing in the stream, concentrating. So far, there was only one ornament etched into the skin of his back; a sign in the ancient language of the Plains Elves. Rabbit had placed it there to mark Estorel's first kill in a hunt, a warg. Soon, another sign would follow, marking Estorel's coming-of-age. Rabbit was covered in signs and markings from head to toe, for he had fought many battles.

Legolas' markings were also impressive. The latest two signs were still fresh, and Estorel had seen them immediately. Placed on his right forearm, they had announced to the world both his marriage and the birth of his son.

"To Mordor with him!"

Quick as a flash, Estorel dove into the water, and when he emerged, he held a crayfish in his hand.

"I see I am not the only one who is shirking his responsibilities today."

Estorel jumped and dropped the crayfish, which made a quick escape downstream.

"Sia? What are you doing here?"

Erestor stood on the narrow bridge. He had watched his son for quite a while.

"As I said: shirking my responsibilities. The delegation from Mirkwood is leaving today, and I decided that Lord Elrond and your father are perfectly capable of sending them off without my help. I am not in the mood for drama. So I came here, as I thought you were not too keen on waving them goodbye, either."

Estorel couldn't help but smile. He shook his head and his long black hair sent water flying in all directions.

"You know me all too well, sia. Then again, you have not been seen for these last weeks, either."

Erestor leaned on the railing.

"Very true, and how unbecoming of Lord Elrond's chief councillor. Are you catching crayfish?"

"Yes. Lost one because you startled me, though. Do you want me to catch one for you?"

Erestor considered the offer for a moment, then he shook his head.

"No, I will catch one myself. I am in the mood for hunting."

He took of his boots, belt and jerkin, and swung over the railing, landing in the middle of the stream.

Estorel looked at him a little doubtfully, but Erestor wagged a finger at him.

"Think twice before you say something you might regret, penneth, or I shall remember that you compared me to a Gondorian fish monger."

Estorel blushed.

"I am sorry, sia. I did not mean to insult you."

"Gondorian fish monger. Really. You have never even been to Gondor!"

"Sia, I-"

"That aside, you were right, and I was wrong. I am the one who should apologise. Still, I cannot change how I feel. And if you think we will sail west and you can do whatever you want here as soon as you have reached your majority, you are wrong, son! And now enough of it, on with the hunt!"

Erestor pushed Estorel over, and he landed face first in the stream. Erestor laughed and dove into the water, emerging soon after with a crayfish.

"Sia!" Estorel snorted. "How could you!"

He chased after his sia, and soon the two were involved in a water fight, dunking and splashing each other while catching crayfish.

Glorfindel and Lórindol watched them from the safe distance of the bridge.

"You were right," Glorfindel said. "I would not have looked for them here in a million years."

"Oh, Estorel always comes here if he is angry, moody or grumpy. So he is here very often. I am surprised to see sia here, though. Did you see that? Sia caught a crayfish! Neat!"

Erestor turned around and saw his husband and youngest son standing on the bridge. He smiled and waved.

"Fin! Do you want a crayfish?"

Glorfindel shuddered.

"Thank you, very tempting, but I just had lunch, beloved!"

Glorfindel and Lórindol watched the rest of their family for a little while longer, then Glorfindel began to undress. Lórindol stared at him in utter bewilderment.

"Ada, what are you doing? You cannot possibly want to jump in the stream too?"

Glorfindel looked at this youngest son and gave him a loving smile.

"Lórindol, penneth - one day you will meet someone for whom you will jump in a stream as well, no questions asked. Then you will understand."

With that, Glorfindel also swung over the railing, and dove into the water, emerging behind Erestor and pulling him close. Erestor yelped, then laughed, and when Glorfindel kissed him, he reciprocated enthusiastically.

Estorel shuddered.

"Ew, ada, sia, please! Not when we are looking," he shouted, and quickly chased after another crayfish.

Lórindol watched them, leaning on the railing, chin propped on his arms. He was only eighty years old, and so far, the important things in his life had been cake, unsolved puzzles, Dwarves and gossip, but now, taking in the happiness of his parents, with the sun shining and the laughter of his brother in the air, a desire formed in his heart; a small flame, which one day would become a burning fire.

"I want this, too," he said to himself. "One day, I want this, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! 
> 
> Well, almost - there will be an epilogue. After all, there is still the issue of Thranduil's missing jewel...


	12. Epilogue: The Missing Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A.C.O.T.E.R., the Annual Conference Of The Elven Realms is over, and the following Yule, Thranduil decides to recover Mirkwood's brightest jewel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent".
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> This chapter contains a Hobbit. Please serve tea and second breakfast when required. Thank you!
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"A perfect winter's day," Bilbo said to himself, looking out of the window. Snow was falling thick and steadily, covering the Shire in a soft, white blanket. It was a lovely scene to watch; all the more so while being home, with mulled wine in a pot on the fire and a well-stocked pantry at his disposal. Bilbo sighed happily and returned to his armchair, tamping his pipe.

"And it will be a perfect Yule as well," he continued his monologue, "and I will celebrate it all by myself, with only a splendid Shire goose with all the trimmings for company. Ah, bliss."

Now, one should not think that the Hobbit was an unfriendly fellow; it was just that, at times, he preferred to be alone with his thoughts and dreams. Now was such a moment, so one can imagine that he was not amused when a knock on his door disturbed his peace.

"A visitor? Who might that be?" he wondered, but did not rise to open the door. Friends did not knock, he was not in the mood for relatives, and opening doors to strangers, so he had learned, could lead very easily to empty pantries and adventures.

Another knock, this time louder. Bilbo sighed, put his pipe in its stand on the small table next to his chair, and rose from his seat.

"How rude, knocking at this time of the day," he muttered, though he had only just finished his afternoon tea. He went to the front door on tiptoe - not an easy feat for a Hobbit - and peeked through the small window in his door. All he could see was snow and grey and a pair of eyes, the latter of a colour and expression not unlike the icicles outside.

Bilbo quickly took a step back.

"Well, that can't be," he said, rubbing his hands nervously on the soft velvet of his waistcoat. It was the green one with a pattern of acorns he had purchased last winter, not that this would impress his visitor. Actually, he doubted that anything could impress that one.

Another knock.

"Open the door, Bilbo Baggins! I know that you are home."

Bilbo sighed. His visitor would not go away, for he had to be counted among the "friends who knock". So, finally, Bilbo opened the door and stepped aside to let his visitor enter.

"Welcome to my home, King Thranduil," he said. "It's been a while."

Thranduil took off his coat, careful not to bump his head on the ceiling.

"Indeed. I am glad to find you in good health, Bilbo Baggins."

"I am glad to find you - here," Bilbo replied, unsure what to say to his visitor. "May I offer you a cup of tea? Or would you prefer mulled wine?"

"Tea?" Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Mulled wine. Yes. Why not."

He followed the Hobbit, and after looking first at Bilbo's armchair and then at Grandma Tooks' rocking chair, he grabbed a cushion and sat unceremoniously on the floor.

"I fear my home is not furnished for Elvish visitors," Bilbo murmured, and hastily filled a mug with mulled wine.

"Why should it be? I doubt you have many visitors of my kin here in Hobbiton, or have you, Bilbo Baggins?"

Bilbo sat down in his chair.

"No," he said, and sipped his mulled wine. "Not many. Wizards, sometimes. And Dwarves."

Thranduil tasted the mulled wine. It was pleasant, and the warmth welcome after the long journey. He had left Lumir in the stable of the closest inn, where the elk had caused quite a sensation, and walked the last miles to Bilbo's home. While he didn't feel the cold the same way as a Hobbit might have, it had not been a pleasant march, despite his heavy woollen cloak.

Thranduil took another sip, then put his mug aside. He looked at Bilbo, and the Hobbit wished he was a thousand miles away.

"I suppose you know why am here?"

Bilbo was tempted to lie, but he was an honest Hobbit, and it wouldn't have helped him to tell a fib, anyway, so he nodded.

"Indeed, I do. You are here about your - business."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow.

"My business? An interesting way to look at it. I am here because something has been taken from me, Bilbo Baggins, and I demand that it is returned to me now."

Bilbo folded his hands and twiddled his thumbs nervously.

"The problem is that your ownership is contested."

" _Contested_? On what grounds?"

"I don't know if I should repeat this..."

"I demand it!" Thranduil ordered firmly.

"Very well then, but remember that you insisted." Bilbo sighed, and began to count off on his fingers. "Your ownership is contested on the grounds that you're irrational, illogical, irresponsible, inconsiderate, irritable, irr-"

Thranduil's usually very pale face turned red with anger.

"This is outrageous! This is _my_ jewel, and I want it back! And to think that you had a hand in this... this betrayal! Then again, you _are_ the Master Thief, are you not?"

"I was only the middle man in this transaction," Bilbo said, holding his hands up in protest. "It was all done properly, with a contract and signatures!"

Thranduil threw his arms in the air.

"Signatures? Contract? How can this be proper when I was not involved? Do you think I care?"

"Well, the problem is, Bedelia Underwood cares very much, and as she is the one who made the contract, you will have to take it up with her. And you will find that the negotiations with Thorin Oakenshield regarding the Arkenstone were a piece of cake compared to the ones you will have with Bedelia Underwood. Her tongue is so sharp, her toothbrush is armoured."

Thranduil glared at Bilbo.

"It will be a cold day in Mount Doom when the King of the Woodland Realm cowers before a Hobbit! Where do I have to go?"

Bilbo sighed.

"Down the street, until you come to the pond. You walk around it, then there's a large oak. Follow the small path behind it until you come to a red fence. That's where Bedelia Underwood lives." He hesitated a moment. "Beware of her donkey. He bites."

"Thank you for the warning."

Thranduil stood up, bowed and made for the door. Bilbo returned to his seat and his mulled wine; he would have loved to witness the encounter that would follow, but wasn't curious enough to leave his cosy home. And anyway, he'd had enough adventures to last a lifetime.

* * *

It wasn't difficult to find the pond; the laughter and screaming of the children led the way more effectively than any signpost. Some were skating on the frozen pond; Hobbit feet were probably exceptionally well suited for such a purpose. Others were involved in a fierce battle next to the oak Bilbo had mentioned; they had built two keeps and an impressive stock of ammunition in form of large heaps of snowballs. There was a red flag flying on the left keep and a blue one on the right. Thranduil had to smile; the scene reminded him of his own childhood, and the many snowball fights he had fought with Amaris.

The snow was soft under his boots; everything here was nice, soft and lovely, so very different from Mirkwood, where snowballs often ended up hard and icy, and one had to be very careful not to end up with a black eye when hit by one. Well, no risk there, considering Amaris' bad aim. How he had become such a skilled archer eventually was still a puzzle to Thranduil.

The battle was now at its peak, and it looked like the red army would win. To get to the house of Bedelia Underwood, Thranduil would have to pass behind the blue army. Thranduil considered whether he should wait for the snowball fight to finish, but he had already wasted enough time, and so he decided to ignore the children. He could easily dodge any stray snowball that came his way.

He was just approaching the edge of the pond when the captain of the blue army spotted him. Their eyes met, and Thranduil did not like what he saw there.

"Do not even think about it..." he muttered, but it was already too late.

"Attack! Attack! The Goblin King!" the cursed creature yelled. There was a moment of silence, then twenty Hobbit children yelled a terrible war cry, and a storm of countless snowballs rained down on Thranduil, who tried to shield his head with his arms, but was still hit several times.

Thranduil was furious. Hobbits or not, this was going too far! He shook the snow off his cloak and his hair, and marched towards the battlefield, ready to shake Hobbitlings and, most of all, the impudent captain of the blue.

Thranduil strode quickly toward the group, and upon seeing the angry Elf, the children quickly dropped their snowballs and ran away, laughing and snickering. The captain of the blue, however, showed no fear; as a captain doesn't leave his sinking ship, he would not leave his keep. One foot on the snow wall, he threw a snowball from one hand to the other, clearly pondering whether he should throw it or not.

"If you throw that thing, I will stick you head first in this snowdrift," Thranduil yelled. "And then I will-"

He couldn't say another word, because the snowball had hit him right in the face and filled his mouth with snow. Having proved his exceptional skill, the thrower laughed and quickly ran away. Thranduil coughed and swore, and then chased after the impertinent miscreant.

"You will regret the day you were born," Thranduil cried. He had to give it to the rascal; he was quick, but Thranduil, the warrior, was quicker, and he soon caught up with the snowball fiend, jumping on him and throwing him down into the snow. Much to his chagrin, though, there was no crying and begging for mercy, just roaring laughter.

"Now that was fun! Hah! Direct hit! You should have seen your face!"

"This is not funny in the least! And why are you wearing a scarf? You do not need a scarf; you are an Elf, for crying out loud!"

"Aw, I have missed you too," Nonfindel said, putting his arms around Thranduil's neck and kissing him. Thranduil was too surprised to protest, and then he could never resist Nonfindel's kisses, anyway, so he decided to discuss this matter later. When Lórindol of Gondolin, called Nonfindel, finally let him go, his anger had evaporated.

"Now tell me, who was the grass? I did not expect you to find me here."

"Mauburz," Thranduil said. "Because I saved her life."

"Ah yes, your big Imladris adventure. You must tell me all about it, but let us go inside, my backside is getting wet."

The two stood up, and Thranduil brushed the snow off his clothes. Nonfindel looked good, if anything he looked even better than when they had parted ways two years ago. Thranduil would have preferred if Nonfindel had been a little less cheerful and happy-looking.

The two followed the path and soon stood in front of a Hobbit hole, as described by Bilbo Baggins. Nonfindel reached into his pocket and produced a key.

"Mind your head," he said upon opening the door, "these things were not built with woodland folk in mind."

"So I was told."

They entered, and it was not much different from Bilbo Baggins' home. The curtains had more frills, and Bedelia Underwood seemed to have a weak spot for doilies, for the bloody things covered just about every surface. Leaning on the walls and piled on chairs were Nonfindel's paintings in various stages of completion. There were landscapes, portraits, experimental splashes of colour which made no sense to Thranduil, and the air was heavy with the scent that had so often caused arguments between the two of them, that unholy mixture of tea and turpentine.

"I see you have not changed your habits," Thranduil said, picking up a picture showing a stern looking Hobbit woman in a red bonnet. "Is that Bedelia Underwood?"

"Indeed it is," Nonfindel replied, taking off his scarf. "She also knitted my scarf, if you care to know."

Thranduil didn't reply. Brushes in glasses stood next to half-full mugs of tea, paint-stained rags were piled next to freshly washed laundry. The place was chaotic, and yet - yet it was also everything he had missed about his beloved. He sat down in front of the fire, careful to avoid any paint stains.

Nonfindel poured something smelling like herbal tea from a pot into a mug and offered it to Thranduil.

"So, how are things back in Mirkwood? Have you recovered from your injuries?"

"Yes. Elrond's healers have worked miracles. Of course, I will be forever indebted to Ellón."

"And so am I," Nonfindel said, and sat down next to Thranduil, kissing him on the cheek. "I would never dare to tell Elrond, but I am very glad the twins are now in Mirkwood. It put my mind at ease to know they are looking after you."

"It makes me feel ancient that everybody seems to think my realm needs to be looked after by two Elflings," Thranduil said. "But I agree, it is good to have them in Mirkwood. And since their arrival, no further attempts have been made to attack Tauriel."

"Or you. Or Legolas."

Thranduil rolled his eyes.

"Oh please! You cannot possibly take Lórindol's fisherman's tale seriously?"

Nonfindel stared into the fire.

"Do not brush him off too lightly, Thranduil. Lórindol's ideas tend to be rather odd, that is true, but he is no fool - far from it. Maybe there is some truth in his theory, as silly as it may sound."

"No. I am very sorry, but no. We both know that Tauriel was the target of these attacks, and we also know the reason. We must not get distracted by the far-fetched fantasies of an Elfling."

Nonfindel arched an eyebrow.

"You sound as if you have had some run-ins with the enchanting little weasel. Do tell!"

"Well, he did save Tauriel," Thranduil said. "And he is sly. I can imagine him going into politics one day. If he manages to reach majority without somebody strangling him out of exasperation first, that is."

"With Lórindol, it could go either way," Nonfindel sighed. "I love my nephews dearly, but I am well aware of Lórindol's shortcomings, because they are the same as Glorfindel's in his first life. Vanity was his downfall, Thranduil. And now I find this trait in his son. Estorel is different; he is proud, but Lórindol is vain. He is 'Lórindol of the Golden Flower', have you noticed? Not Lórindol of Imladris. The House of the Golden Flower is no more, but he likes to bask in the greatness of its name. And he has a great love for gems and jewels - actually, you two should get along just fine!"

"As a matter of fact, we do not," Thranduil said tartly. "I found him highly irritating."

Nonfindel grinned.

"As I said, you two should get along just fine."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow.

"Ah yes, so you find me irritating?"

"Oh, absolutely! Very! Irritating, irrational, illogical, irresponsible, inconsiderable, irr-"

"Yes, I have heard that already," Thranduil cut him off. "I have not come here to continue our argument, Nonfindel. I have come to take you home."

Nonfindel smiled. "That is very nice. But I would rather stay here."

Thranduil frowned. "This is not a request."

"What do you intend to do? Call in your army and declare war on the Shire? Because you _will_ need an army to remove me from here, Thranduil. Remember, I am the brother of a Balrog slayer. I might never have slain a Balrog, but I am confident I can best an ill-tempered Woodland King."

"But you are an Elf! And this is a hole! You are an Elf sitting in a hole in the ground! Have you lost your mind?" Nonfindel's stubbornness had Thranduil close to losing his composure.

"So?" Nonfindel shrugged. _**"** It is not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it is a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."1  
_

"May the Forest Spirits give me strength - where did you pick that up? Hobbiton Tourist Board?"

Nonfindel folded his hands.

"Thranduil, you live in a hole in the ground as well, and, if I may point this out, it is far less comfortable than this one here. Bedelia Underwood has carpets in every room. Do you have carpets? No. You have sand. Sand! Even in the bedchamber! But anyway, I have signed a contract, obligating myself to look after this house until she returns from visiting her sister and to make sure nobody steals, sells or auctions off her belongings."

"And, pray tell, when will said Bedelia Underwood return?"

"It depends," Nonfindel said, waving his hand. "When the first snowdrop shows in the garden. We are having a harsh winter, so who knows when that will be."

Thranduil ran his hands through his hair.

"You mean to tell me your return depends on the appearance of _snowdrops_?"

"Indeed. A lovely thought, is it not?"

Thranduil didn't reply. He looked out of the window, but couldn't see anything. Heavy snow had set in, and though it was only afternoon, it was almost dark outside. All things considered, it was comfortable in this Hobbit hole, and much preferable to being out in the snow. Snowdrops, however, were still many weeks away.

"And _would_ you return once the cursed snowdrop shows itself?" Thranduil finally asked.

"That depends."

"Name your conditions."

Nonfindel sighed. He reached out and put his hand on Thranduil's arm, squeezing it lightly.

"We are not negotiating a trade agreement here. You wanted me to change, and I was not willing to, so I left. Nothing has changed. I will continue to sing in the corridors of your sacred cave, I will paint indecent pictures of naked Elves and I will uphold my friendships with all and sundry that you consider unsuitable. I do not care if anybody might watch if we kiss. Furthermore, I stick to my statement that your court is about as cheerful as the Dead Marches. Are you really certain you want me to return?"

Thranduil stared into the fire. He remembered well the terrible argument that had ended with Nonfindel packing his belongings, saddling his horse and leaving Mirkwood without another word. At first, his departure had filled Thranduil's days with anger, but soon, it had been loneliness; a terrible, all-encompassing loneliness which had cast a dark shadow on the soul of the King of the Woodland Realm.

"You are right; Mirkwood is not the right place for you to live. Its rules and traditions go against all that you are and cherish. And that is what makes you, and what I love. But it is where I live. It is my home." He looked at Nonfindel, and the sadness on his face cut deep into his heart. "It is where I rule. But I have found that living there without you is unbearable, for all light has left my life since you left. I agonised over this dilemma, and it was your nephew Estorel who finally showed me the solution."

Nonfindel looked up in surprise.

"Estorel? _Estorel_?"

"Indeed. The young one is wise beyond his years, though he might not realise it." Thranduil smiled. "He does have some odd ideas about Gondorian fish mongers. But he is right about one thing: it is time to leave painful memories and grievances behind. Nonfindel, I have decided that it is time for Legolas to take the throne. He will make an excellent king, and Amariel a splendid queen. As for myself, I will sail west. And I want you to come with me, beloved. What do you say?"

If Thranduil had suggested they move to the Iron Hills in Wilderland, Nonfindel could not have been more surprised, so he just stared at Thranduil before finally managing to produce a baffled "what?"

"I am overwhelmed by the enthusiasm demonstrated here," Thranduil said dryly.

"No, no," Nonfindel quickly said, pulling Thranduil close. "This is wonderful news; I just would never have expected you to give up your realm! Sailing west - are you certain that this is what you want?"

Thranduil nodded.

"Yes, after much consideration, I am. And I am certain you would like it; imagine, you could splatter paint wherever you want, sing out of tune without anybody complaining, and I will find something to do as well. Crocheting, maybe. Or pigeon breeding."

"I really doubt these rumours are true," Nonfindel laughed. "But what has Legolas said to your plans?"

"Legolas?" Thranduil looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Well, you certainly have discussed this with him?"

"No, why should I?"

Nonfindel shook his head.

"Thranduil, you cannot decide to sail west without talking about it with Legolas first! Does he even wish to become the King of the Woodland Realm?"

"Of course, what a question!" Thranduil threw his arms in the air. "Why would he not want to be king? Everybody wants to be king!"

Nonfindel had his doubts, but he felt that this was not the moment to voice them. He knew what an enormous sacrifice Thranduil was prepared to make, and all for him. Who would have thought that the happiest moment of his life would be here, in a Hobbit-hole, surrounded by Bedelia Underwood's doilies?

"Let us stay here then and wait for the first snowdrop, Thranduil. I am certain Legolas can look after Mirkwood for a few months, and I will show you the beauty of the Shire. Furthermore, the blue army really could do with some reinforcements. And then we will return home. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

This was the good thing about being here in this Hobbit-hole; not only was it comfortable and cosy; there was also nobody here but the two of them, and so Thranduil could rest his head on Nonfindel's shoulder and hold his hand without anybody watching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
> 
> And that was really THE END now!
> 
> Thanks for reading and leaving all those lovely comments. I'm very happy that, ten or even fifteen years after my last story, so many of you returned to see what happened to my characters. I hope you will enjoy the sequel, which will be a little darker, with more drama and adventure (but still enough humour, no worries).
> 
> PS: If you'd like to know the pre-history of Thranduil and Nonfindel (warning, R-rated):
> 
> Painting the Woods Red  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1149871/chapters/2330455


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